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POEMS 



BY 



MRS. ANNA MARIE SPAULDING 




NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY JAMES xMILLER, 

(SUCCESSOR TO C. 8. FRANCIS <fe CO.,) 

522 BROADWAY. 

1866. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, 

By JAMES MILLER, 

In the Clerk's Office of tiie District Court of the United States 
for the Southern District of New York. 



Andithson a Ramsay, I'rintkbs, 
2s FiHtikfort Street, N. Y. 



TO 

CHARLES K. LANDIS, ESQ., 

OF VINELAND, N. J., 

THIS VOLUME 

IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, 

ANNA MARIE SPAULDING. 



Kind, generous friend ! my heart was sadly thrilling 
With many songs, imprisoned, long unsung, 

And memory's fields with unmarked graves were filling — 
Graves of dear hopes to which ambition clung. 

Then you the joy-bells for these hopes set ringing — ■ 
Though weary fate had bade me see them die — 

And I the sweet tune of my dream am singing. 
Though my lest thovghts, uncaught, have passed me by. 

But you have caught the air my soul is singing, 
And you have seen my thought-birds glancing past 

And back to me your generous hand is bringing, 
If not the dead, the rescued hopes at last. 

ViNELAND, N. J., 18fi4. 



PREFACE, 



As this volume is merely an olio of un- 
comiected poems, written as suggested by 
passing events, it was impossible to arrange 
its contents with reference to date or merit. 
To classify them with regard to similarity of 
subject was almost as difficult, but has been, 
at least, attempted ; which accounts for some 
little poems written in childhood being found 
among those of later date. Very many of 
the pieces were composed at an early age, a 
number of which would have been excluded, 
had the arrangement been entirely my own. 

Few of any date were written expressly 
for publication, though many have appear- 
ed in print. Had they been penned under 
the restraint of such design, they might 
have been more studied in style, but less 
natural in spirit. As it is, these little poems 



b PREFACE. 

probably diifer, in their tone of unreserve, 
from others collected for publication. May 
the knowledge of this kindly shield them 
from criticisms which they might deserve if 
offered with higher pretensions. The simple 
expressions of a hearfs imrin impulses do not 
aspire to be classed with master-pieces of 
intellect. 

Why they appear in this form, I scarcely 
know. In girlish days I shrunk from seek- 
ing to blend my untrained voice in the proud 
song of America's gifted ones. Prophetic 
promises (now seemingly false) floated to 
me from the future, of maturer life — of riper 
intellectual powers. Since those promises 
allure no longer, and "heart and strength 
have failed" me in early womanhood, I part 
with the dream of fame, seeking only to 
realize the sweeter hope of leaving some 
tangible proof of my presence in friendly 
hearts and homes, when my life shall be 
folded away in invisibility. 

Those homes are scattered over the wide 
Union — from the Atlantic to the Pacific — 
from the shores of the northern lakes to the 
strand of the Mexican gulf. 

Living in their memories, I shall not be 



PREFACE. 7 

parted wholly from the land of my purest 
love; nor shall ray voice cease altogether to 
sing of the " flag of our pride," among whose 
defenders the forms of my loved ones cluster 
thick as the stars on its field of blue, and 
whose every stripe has been ransomed by 
the life-blood and battle-scars of heroes, 
whose names were engraven on my heart 
before they were seen on the ''roll of 
honor," or the lowlier lists of the " mus- 
tered out." 

ANNA MARIE SPAULDING. 
ViNELAND, N. J., October 15th, 1864. 



CONTENTS. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

PAGE 

The Star-Spangled Banner 15 

Our Country calls 16 

Oar Sacrifice IT 

Clintonette IS 

Address to Company F, 62d Pennsylvania Volunteers 19 

A Health 21 

To a Brother in the Army on his Promotion 22 

To my Father on Ills Birth-day 23 

The Volunteer 25 

To the 62d Pennsylvania Volunteers 27 

Not Dead 2S 

To a Young Volunteer 29 

Yes or No ? 80 

The White Kid Gloves 32 

To Callle 33 

The Flag of our Pride 35 

Happily Hoping 37 

The Invasion -^S 

On ! Brothers, on ! • 40 

The Union Oflfering 41 

I'm waiting, Harry 42 

Millicent and Barbara 4c 

To Clinton and his Comrades 47 

To my Soldier Brothers 48 

The Soldier's Smoking Song 50 

A Soldier's Letter 51 



10 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Faded Chevrons 53 

To Captain George E. Dunlap 55 

To Lieutenant Sample on his Promotion 56 

Falmoutli Flowers 58 

Out in the Storm CO 

Prayer in Camp 61 

Waiting for Letters from the Army 62 

England 63 

Lines Inscribed to Mr. S. Euss 65 

Is our Flagstil! there? 67 

Spring Snow 69 

Lines to the Loyal 71 

Hymn on the Battle-field 74 

God will Care fur Mother Now 75 

Mustered out 77 

The Tri-colored Neck-tie 78 

The Crimson Cross 79 

The Bonnie Blue Stripes 82 

To my Brother in Tennessee 83 

Battle-field Blossomings 84 

The Southern Voice 85 

The Blue Violets 86 

Tlie Dead Picket 87 

After the Battle 90 



IDYLS OF HOME. 

The Old Place 92 

Loved Scenes 93 

Thoughts of Home 94 

Dream Visit to Fruitland 95 

Heart-calls for Home 98 

Good-bye 99 

For Ella's " Eose-bud" Album 100 

Keeping House 101 

To my absent Mother 102 

To Henry 105 

Vineland 106 



CONTENTS. 11 

PAGE 

Invitation to Vineland 108 

Reply to the " Invitation to Yineland" 110 

Home of uiy Childhood 112 



EPISODES, 

The Persian Maiden and her Lute , 114 

The Blind Italian Girl 116 

Madeline 119 

Honora 122 

Rosa Bramble 125 

Mallie 128 

Annie, of Looking-glass Prairie 137 

Janette 142 

Interlucation 145 

Ly ton's Lilian 146 

The Unknown Grave 150 



A MISCELLANY. 

Margaret Miller Davidson lr)2 

To Helen 155 

To Fannie 155 

To Julia 157 

Je pense a vous 1 58 

Hal Starr 159 

To H * * * * 160 

To a Lost Friend 161 

To Rebecca 163 

To Ria 164 

Impromptu— to an Editor 166 

Mary Hawthorne 167 

Who is She? 168 

To Mrs. Lieutenant Russell 169 

To Miss May D 170 

Richie's Hair 171 

The Rings of Hair 172 

Julie 173 



12 CONTENTS. 

PAGlJ 

Jessie — 1' 5 

Entertained Unawares ^'76 

Tiie Golden Gate 17T 

Rebecca 179 

" Light nie through" ISO 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Smiles and Tears 181 

Sadness 182 

Love Not 184 

A Fragment 187 

A Plaint 187 

To Die and be forgotten 188 

My Girlhood 190 

The Summer's Light 192 

Sympathy 192 

Yearnings 194 

The tM'o Pictures 196 

Fantasia 197 

ADream-Thonglit 199 

At Sunset 200 

Expectancy 200 

Good-Night 202 

My Soul . . • 203 

Bury me in the evening 205 

Dark Thoughts 206 

Music 208 

To Jack 210 

Complaining 211 

The Heavy Rain 213 

Farewell to my Harp 213 

Watching 215 

Remembering 217 

Last Night 219 

My Blossom 220 

Bo-Peep 222 

Grief. 22:? 

Spirit-Bird 224 



CONTENTS 13 

PAGE 

Birdie 226 

A November Scene 227 

Idle Hours 229 

The Passing o' the Simmer 231 

Autumnal Musings 232 

IntheDark... r. 234 

Chiming Bells 235 

I have been where Jesus was 236 

Morning Prayer in School 238 

To Emily 240 

On the Ruins of Dr. Bullard's Church, St, Louis 241 

Singing in Heaven 242 

I am troubled 243 

A Prayer 245 

I know not how to die 246 

Wave-Worn 249 

Saved 251 

The Prison Daisy 253 

Laus Deo 254 

My Name 255 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

Dearie 257 

The little Red Shoe 258 

AUie and Lillie 261 

Grandfather's Darling 262 

" He's coming" 264 

Bonnie Winnie 266 

To Anna Margaret 267 

Acrostic 268 

Leaf from a little Life -. ... 268 

Hetty Marvyn 272 

The Little Huguenot 277 

A Christmas Story 282 

Christmas Eve 284 



PATKIOTIC POEMS. 



The Star Spangled Banner. 

Oh ! say, can it be that the Stripes and the Stars 

Now no longer shall wave o'er a part of our nation, 
Unless on the field, in this saddest of wars, 
It unfurls o'er the scene of the South's desolation ? 
Shall the cannon's deep roar. 
From the field red with gore. 
Proclaim it must float when 'tis honored no more ? 
Oh ! saj, shall the Star Spangled Banner thus wave. 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 

In that land once firmly united with this, 
Our own kindred, as foes, for the conflict now 
gather, 
And the flag of the South unfurls in the breeze 
That will linger to sigh o'er the tomb of our Fa- 
ther. 
It may sigh o'er his rest. 
But can w^ake in his breast 
No hope that may rescue the land he has blest. 
Oh ! Star Spangled Banner ! God grant ye may wave 
Again over Washington's birthplace and grave! 

■Bloomsbcrg, Pa., May, 1861. 



16 PATRIOTIC POEMS 



Our Countey calls. 

Our Country calls ! freely the call obeying, 
Eally, oh ! brothers, 'neath our banner proud ! 

And with a loyal will that knows no staying. 
Claim e'en in death its folds, your limbs to shroud. 

Our Country calls ! the Stars and Stripes are trailing 
Low in the dust, beneath rebellion's feet, 

And many a loyal heart is inly failing 
Because of captures, failures, and retreat. 

Our Country calls ! and there is no replying, 
Save in the act of rallying round her flag ! 

Brave men already gone, are doing — dying — 
Shall sons of Cumherland like cowards lag? 

Our Country calls ! let history tell the story 
Of action prompt, in this her hour of need ; 

For willing hands may gild with fadeless glory 
Page after page with many a noble deed. 

Our country calls! and sisters, wives, and mothers, 
Count their love-jewels — all they have to give — 

Saying alike to husbands, sons, and brothers, 
" Go ! for the Union must forever live !" 

Our Country calls ! then with one heart endeavor 
To answer with the booming cannon roar. 

Until no traitor hand uplifts to sever 
The bands that should unite us evermore! 

CUMBEULAND Co., N. J. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. It 



Our Sacrifice. 

"We give him up ! we dare refuse no longer ! 

Our loyal hearts must hold back nothing now ! 
We Imgered — but it made us none the stronger 

To bare to Southern bullets his young brow. 

We give him up ! the prayers of a fond father 

Follow hiuj, even to the battlefield ; 
And when the enemy around him gather, 

His mother's Bible shall his warm heart shield. 

We give him up ! the heart of a sad mother, 
Set free, at parting, its one bird of joy, 

To hover, all unseen by any other, 

Around the pathway of her own brave boy. 

We give him up ! an only sister's blessing 
Goes with him on his dark and dangerous way. 

Though she alone missed the last sad caressing. 
And bore alone the trial of that day. 

We give him up ! his brothers still remaining. 
Watch the young soldier from the mountain-side, 

Their youthful hearts with one high hope sustaining, 
The hope that laurels all his scars may hide. 

We give him up ! and it may be forever ! 

The Flag he loves may be his winding-sheet; 
The halls of home, again, may never, never. 

Echo the bounding tread of his young feet. 

Bat still we give him up! his boyish beauty ■ — 
His sunny eye and clustering dark-brown curls 

Must glance and wave along the path of duty. 
Where'er our Starry Banner now unfurls. 



18 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Oh ! yes, we give him up ! but who can measure 
The greatness of the sacrifice we make ? 

Who knows the priceless vakie of our treasure ? 
Who waits with us, to feel their full hearts break ? 

Bloomsburg, Pa., 1864. 



Clintonette. 

Adapted to an Irish Melody. 

Whex, dear Clintonette, I sigh with regret, 

When remembering one afar, 
I gaze on your face, and a likeness trace 

To our boy who has gone to war. 
Your forehead so fair, and your rich brown hair, 

And eyes beneath brown arches set, 
Eemind me of one, who, alas ! is gone — 

Gone off to the war, Clintonette, 
Clintonette, 

Gone off to the war, Clintonette. 

I look at you now, and I see his brow. 

And the trick of his very frown ; 
And the changeful light of his blue eyes bright, 

I can see through your lashes brown. 
Since he is not here, that look has grown dear, 

For in absence 1 see him yet. 
And love to believe the romance I weave 

Around Clinton and Clintonette, 
Chntonette, 

Around Clinton and Clintonette. 

So I will hope on, although he is gone, 
And my head witli its dream beguile ; 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 19 

The light of those eyes I will doubly prize — 

That froion shall be sweet as a smile! 
Your look and your tone I'll fancy his own, 

Though his is so manly, my pet ; 
And while he's away, 'twill cheer us to say 

That Clinton is like Clintonette, 
Clintonette, 

That Clinton is like Clintonette. 

WiLLIAMSPORT, Pa., 1861. 



Address to Co. F, 62d Pa. Yols. 

SoLDiEKs ! while ye wait, expecting 

Every hour the battle-call. 
Let the friendlier voice of woman 

On your watchful senses fall. 

From the heart of Pennsylvania, 

Where the Red, the White, and Blue 

Wave above the Susquehanna, 
Floats this friendly voice to you. 

Brothers ! when your thoughts are turning 
From the old Potomac's strand, 

And ye dream of xMleghany, 
And Sylvania's loyal land. 

Think not ice are idly weeping — 

Pining for the brave and true : 
No ; for while the heart-rain's falling, 

Golden beams of Hope break through. 

We would cheer and not dishearten — 
We would ever urge you on ! 



20 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

To Manassas, to Port Royal ! 
Until treason's overthrown. 

Go! and may the God of Battles, 
Nerve you for the fearful fight ; 

Trust Him, and He will sustain you. 
For your cause is just and right. 

And there is a mighty weapon 
God commands you all to use: 

It is Prayer — brave hearts accept it- 
It were madness to refuse. 

Prayer can turn the tide of battle, 
It can strengthen even-the strong. 

It can lead you on triumphant 
Till you shout the victor's song ! 

Use it, soldiers ; grasp this weapon — 
Let it strengthen heart and hand ; 

Take it with you in the conflict — 
With it save your native land. 

Go then, brothers, brave and loyal. 
And with prayer we too will tight, 

When around each family altar 
We are gathered morn and night. 

Go, and come again with honor. 
We are weaving laurels now ; 

^^'e have smiles for every Victor, 
Wreaths for every Hero's brow ! 

WlLLIAMSPOKT, Pa., 1861. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 21 



A Health. 

Air — Here's a health to them that's awa'. 

Robert Bukns. 

Here's a health to them that's away, 

Here's a health to them that's away; 
A. health to our gallant Coinmander-in chief, 

America's idol to-day ; 

A health to defenders of Laws — 

A health to the loyal and true ! 
And to all who support Colombia's cause, 

And bide by the Eed, AVhite, and Blue ! 

Here's a health to them that's away, 
Here's a health to them that's away, 

A health to the army of brave volunteers 
That fight for our Country to-day ! 
May they bravely defend the Laws — • 
May deaths of the loyal be few — 

May they never desert Columbia's cause, 
But stand by the Red, White, and Blue ! 

Here's a health to all that's away, 
Here's a health to all that's away ; 

A health to the soldiers and officers, all 
Who fight for the Union to-day! 
May their valor preserve our Laws, 
May their hearts be loyal and true, 

And may all who oppose Columbia's cause, 

Come back 'neath the Eed, White, and Blue ! 

WiLLIAMSPORT, Pa., 1861. 



aa PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

To A Brother in the Army, 

ON HIS PROMOTION. 

Now permit an only sister, thus a brotlier dear to 
greet, 

With aifection's warmest praises, well deserved and 
therefore sweet. 

Though upon the verge of manhood, scorning weak 
and childish ways, 

'Tis not weakness, noble brother, to accept a wo- 
man's praise. 

Bravest hearts are ever gentle, sternest souls are 
quick to feel. 

And can thrill with deep emotion, yet defy the foe- 
man's steel. 

One step you have taken upward, and that step 
with joy I hail. 

Your young feet have gained a foothold : keep it, 
brother, never fail. 

Let your name become an honor to the land that 
gave you birth, 

Make it worthy to be spoken at the truest patriot's 
hearth. 

Onward ! upward ! be your motto ; victory your 
ardent prayer ! 

Nurse no selfish, low ambition — make your Coun- 
try laurels wear. 

Pennsylvania is your birth State : make her star 

undimmed to shine, 
And her fadeless mountain laurel yet about your 

brow shall twine. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 23 

And the State of your adoption, free and loyal 
Illinois, 

One day may delight to claim you, and your com- 
ing hail with joy ; 

For beneath the Starry Banner, that youhe sworn 
allegiance to, 

Her brave sons at home have rallied, and we know 
their hearts are true. 

I have faith in you, my brother! proud blood 
courses through your veins, 

And the name your fathers gave you was trans- 
mitted free of stains ; 

If their blood in many a battle flowed to keep our 
banner bright, 

The same spirit you inherit, and like sire the son 
will light. 

I have faith in you, my brother! and although my 
cheek grows white, 

I will neither faint nor falter, I will pray God speed 
the Right! 

WiLI.IAMSPORT, Pa., 1861. 



To MY Father, on his Birthday. 

With childish and homesick yearnings, 
Oh, father, my heart is laden ; 

The ties of a wife and mother. 

Break none of the child and maiden. 

So now I turn from my children 
Who gleefully round me gather, 



24 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

To think of my own lost childhood — 
To sigh for my absent father. 

I recall the birthdays happy 

When your years I told in kisses, 

And I wish time might roll backward, 
And give me your old caresses. 

But, no ! 1 would have the present 

Enlivened with old-time pleasure, 
And add to it, dearest father. 



] long for a glad reunion — 
I wait for a father's greeting, 

But not until all the absent 
Can join in the joyous meeting. 

While on the guarded Potomac 
Eemains a beloved brother, 

My heart can never be quiet. 
Even with father and mother. 

I count it a bitter delight. 
Alone to be here, a stranger, 

While he in the distant army 

Braves death and disease and danger. 

But long ere another birthday 

May wanderings and wars be ended, 

And we, all safely united, 

Give thanks for a home defended. 

WiLLiAMSFORT, Jan. 9th, 1862. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 25 



The Volunteer. 

You know I love you, each and all — 

I need not say I do ; 
But my heart is just as sad and sick 

As if I had only Hugh. 

Alice Cakey. 

You know I love you, brothers all — 
You know I think of you ; 

But with the Volunteer, my heart 
Stays till the fight is through ! 

Upon my chamber floor I kneel. 

All other wants forgot, 
To ask that God will save him from 

The soldier's common lot. 

I seek my pillow but to dream 
Of war, and war's alarm, 

And only wake to pray again, 

" God shield our boy from harm." 

The sick and wounded lists I read 

With palpitating heart, 
And always look if his Brigade 

Has in the fray borne part. 

In every wild and wintry storm 
That sweeps across the land, 

My thoughts fly to our Volunteer, 
And his true-hearted band. 

You know I love you ; but you see 

You are not Volunteers, 
And so my love's not kept awake 

By many hopes and fears. 
3 



26 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

So, thoiigli I love yon, brothers all — 

Though all alike are dear — 
Your presence could not make me glad 

AVithout our Volunteer. 

You know I love you, one and all — 
, Then all with me unite 
In praying that our Volunteer 
Shall fall not in the fight. 

Join with our father when he hears 

His burden to the Lord : 
We must not trust his life alone 

To his good gun and sword. 

Cheer our sweet mother, be to her 

Just like the gallant boy, 
"Who, months ago, his Country called 

Fell treason to destroy. 

And you yourselves, grow strong and brave, 

The future's dark as night ; 
And if the haughty English come, 

Then nerve your hearts to fight ! 

Your hearts I know are strong enough, 
But tender are your years, — 

And could we send our youngest forth 
To join the Volunteers? 

This we will hope may never be — 

We need not yet have fears. 
But if it comes, God grant you strength 

To be brave Volunteers ! 

WiLLIAMSl'OKT, Pa., 18G2. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 21 



To THE Sixty-second Eegiment Pa. Yols. 

AFTEK THK DEATH OF COL. S. BLACK. 

Anotiiee hero fallen ! and we mourn his loss to- 

Though the cannon booms of victory far off across 

the bay. 
We never saw his manly form, his strong brave 

spirit's shrine, 
That every eye looked on with pride, along the 

battle-line ; 
But, soldiers, your devotion, revealed in tidings 

home, 
Has taught our hearts to love him, and with you 

we mourn his doom. 

Brave heart! its aspirations sleep — it never more 

may beat — 
Nor feel a victor's joy, nor thrill when conquered 

foes retreat ; 
And the hour we are looking for, alas ! he may not 

see. 
For all of earth he yielded up, striving for victory. 

Tried hearts ! ye must have well-nigh failed to see 

your leader fall, 
And faltered in your thoughts when first you missed 

his clarion call. 
But, soldier-like, we know you suffered not your 

firm young feet 
To yield one blood-bought inch of earth in coicardly 

retreat. 



28 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Oh, brothers true ! though many a sad and gory 
battle-plain, 

Eeceives a bloody baptism from the hearts of heroes 
slain. 

Let not a soldier-soul gro^Y faint — let love of Coun- 
try give 

Strength to fight on, to charge and shout, "The 
Union yet shall live!" 

And look to God, your loved commander's Father, 
Friend, and Guide, 

And like him, too, go fearless forth into the battle- 
tide ; 

Knowing whatever fate betides — whate'er may 
chance you there, 

God and your Country will bestow crowns you 
shall ever wear. 

ViNELAND, N. J., June, 18C2. 



Not Dead. 

Birds 1 let me hear you louder sing ! 
All voices in tlie chorus ring 
To celebrate our joy ! 

The day is breaking ! light appears ! 
Praise God ! the time is past for tears- 
He's coming liome— our boy! 

Gloom hung about our hearts last night- 
To-day the world is passing bright — 
The darkness, it has fled ! 



a 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 29 

The shrouded picture we unveil — 
The lips with kisses we may hail — 
Thank God, he is not dead ! 

From Richmond is the letter's date — 
" Prisoner of war" our darling's fate — 
Yet he is " safe and well." 

Is't not a theme for highest praise, 
That he was shielded all those days 
When thousands like him fell ? 

"I'm coming on parole, take cheer:" 
Then may we not expect him here — 
Our brother, son, and guest? 

Oh, sunlight, shine ! oh, glad birds, sing ! 
It is for no small trivial thing 

We make the proud behest. 

Bloom, flowers! our soldier's path to strew — 
Ye evergreens bathe in the dew, 
Ready to crown his head. 

Waft, winds ! the proud ship up the bay — 
I charge you, waves, make no delay 
Now that he is not dead! 

August, 1862. 



To A Young Volunteer. 

The friendly tear. 

The word of cheer. 

Cannot be shed or spoken ; 



30 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

But far from here, 
This will appear 
Friendship's impromptu token. 

We lose a friend, 

But still would send. 
If needful, all we treasure ; 

Our Country '11 live 

If we but give 
Such gifts, and without measure. 

Adieu! adieu! 

God go with you, 
And be your shield forever, 

Guiding you on. 

Till Peace shall dawn ; 
Deserting you — no, never 1 

ViNELAND, Aug. 18(52. 



Yes oe No? 

Must I give him up, my heart ? 

Yes or no ? 
If 'tis duty bids us part. 

Tell me so. 

Thrice has he essayed to go — 

Thrice in vain ; 
Heart, how can you bear the woe 

O'er again? 

Is his Country calling him 
In her need ? 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 31 

If she is, these eyes must dim — • 
This heart bleed. 

If he had his youthful health, 

rd be strong — ■ 
Hope would be a mine of wealth 

The year long. 

Heart, why do you answer not, 

Yes or no ? 
If 'twere some less loved one's lot, 

Should he go ? 

If I merely were his friend, 

Then his life 
Should his Country well defend ; 

But a loife — 

Must she be a Spartan too, 

Proud to bear 
Heartaches all this fierce war through. 

Double share ? 
Ah ! I see my duty plain. 

Should he go ; 
'Tis to give him up again — 

Not say no. 



I confess ; 
Now I answer to the call, 
Ye^^ and Yes ! 

August, 1862. 



32 PATRIOTIC POEMS 



The White Kw Gloa^es. 

The first time I wore them, ah! well I remember; 
I dream of it now, left alone in mj chamber; 
I think of the boat-ride, the drive in the carriage — 
The midnight arrival — the meeting — the mar- 
riage. 
I see the events of that time pass before me — 
I feel the same feelings again stealing o'er me ; 
And sweet would it be, if, instead of this grieving, 
Remembrance conld lure my heart into belie\dng 
That I the past bridal dav over w^as living, 
Again to my heart's friend this heart and hand 
giving. 

Those gloves! I had laid them away with old treas- 
ures. 
That like them were fragrant with thoughts of 

past pleasures ; 
I laid them away as too precious for using, 
^Vith never a thought that to-day I'd be choosing 
To bring them again from the place of their keep- 
ing, 
To wear them, alas ! when unhappy and weeping. 
Ah, well! 'tis in mercy these things are with- 

holden ; 
For never a moment of life would seem golden, 
If we on maturity's rose-colored morning 
Could ;3ee how the future is draped in deep mourn- 
ing. 

Tliose gloves! I must place them again for safe 

keeping. 
Away out of reach of the tca''s I am weeping. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 33 

It was strange that I wished for these trembling 

fingers, 
On which the last pressure of his hand yet lingers, 
To feel that last pressure — that mute caressing — 
In the gloves that they wore for the bridal bless- 
ing. 
But strange if it be, 'twas an impulse — a feeling — 
That the balm of their touch I could fancy healing, 
And that lie would like best to cla-^p them thus — 

leaving 
Me for his Country, consenting yet grieving. 

The first time I wore them our lives were united — 
The last time, how near seemed that happiness 

blighted ! 
But I'll lay them away with care the most tender, 
Because he has gone, his best service to render, 
In the bravest and truest and most loyal manner, 
On, under the folds of our Star Spangled Banner ! 
And if ever I wear them again, God willing, 
It will be when my hand in his shall be thrilling. 
When the perilous days of this war are ended, 
When the dove of peace on our land has descended. 

August, 1862. 



To Callie. 

Our Vineland home has lost its charm. 

Now that we sit alone 
Catching the echoes of alarm ; 

But never that old tone, Callie ! 

Your own, familiar tone. 



34 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Few pairs of feet are now left here, 
To tread the paths you made, 

Since you with manly words of cheer 
The Country's call obeyed, Callie ! 
The Country's call obeyed. 

The suns of sixteen summer years 

Had set your boyish heart 
Aglow with valor — void of fears — 

And so we had to part, Callie ! 

Ah me ! we had to part. 

We have no picture of you yet, 

Like Clinton's on the wall, 
But there's no danger we'll forget. 

It hangs in Memory's hall, Callie ! 

It hangs in Memory's hall. 

The little lips you love to kiss, 
All day your name repeat — 

Poor things ! the world is all amiss — 
Life's bitter now, not sweet, Callie ! 
All bitter, and no sweet. 

The harp of household harmony 
Has broken one more string. 

Since you can no more merrily 
Among us laugh and sing, Callie ! 
Whistle, and laugh, and sing. 

What dreary changes years have wrought! 

I knew not, brother mine, 
That these dread battles must be fought, 

In "days of auld lang syne," Callie ! 

In "days oranld lang syne." 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 35 

The curly tangles of your hair 

(Then, just the hue of gold) 
I knew must cease to be my care, 

When you had grown this old, Oallie ! 

Full sixteen bright years old. 

But I no soldier-cap could see 
Prepared to press them down, 

Soon as their sunshine came to be 
Shaded with chestnut brown, Callie ! 
Shaded with chestnut brown. 

But thus it is, and now we wait 

The dawn of peaceful days, 
Hoping for you the happy fate 

Of hailing their glad rays, Callie ! 

Their beautiful glad rays. 

ViNELAND, N. J. 



The Flag of oue Ppjde. 

FOR CO. B., TWENTY-FOURTH REGT., N. J. VOLS. 

^ir— "Star Spangled Banner." 

The Flag of our pride we are planting once more 
On the bluffs, in the dells of the proud old Do 
minion. 
And here on the rushing Potomac's wild shore 
"We will guard with our lives the dear emblem 
of Union. 
The artillery clash, and the cavalry dash. 
The roll of the thunder and lightning flash. 



36 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Alike are imheeded, if -we may but wave 
The bright emblem of Union, the Flag of the 
Brave ! 

Our strong hands are lifted with rifle and sword, 
Against traitorous hosts and the ills of Seces- 
sion; 
Our war-cry is this — the old Union restored, 

As our forefathers gave it, unstained by oppres- 
sion; 
Our allegiance is true, and the oath we renew, 
As we rally to fight for the Ked. White, and Blue ; 
All perils unheeded, till once more shall wave 
From Maine to the Gulf States the flag of the 
brave ! 

Oh, the Star Spangled Banner! Oh, flag of our 
pride ! 
"When the bright day shall dawn that unites us 
a nation, 
Virginia shall hail thee, her star-gleaming guide, 

And her war-blasted fields shall forget desolation. 
But until then her shore shall be reddened with 

gore. 
For the Flag and the Union we've sworn to re- 
store. 
JSTo perils are heeded, through all we must wave 
The bright emblem of Union, the flag of the 
brave ! 

Oh ! shades of our Fathers, whose blood bought 
the land, — 
The same God whom thei/ trusted, we ask for 
direction, 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 3*1 

And under His guidance we'll march or we'll 
stand, 
With unwavering faith to restore our connection. 
For restore it we must, if in God is our trust. 
Though victorj may smile as ice lie in the dust ; 
But death is unheeded, if we may but wave 
Over all the old Union the flag of the brave ! , 

NOVEMBEK, 1862. 



Happily Hoping. 

A LONG and lonesome year 

I enter, half in fear, 
Without my guide through darkness groping ; 

Peering out in the gloom, 

Where ghostly shadows loom, 
Tet sweetly hoping, 

Happily hoping. 

Did I not hear him say 

To me, that parting day, 
With smiles, '* There's reason, love, in hoping ; 
So think when I am gone, 

'Twas duty urged me on. 

Still fondly hoping, 

Happily hoping." 

I gave the hand I wed 

To grasp the sword, instead 
Of holding mine : I gave it, hoping 
That one so free from stain, 

Might not be given in vain ; 

I gave it hoping. 

Happily hoping. 



38 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

I am, since he is gone, 

In every sense alone ; 
Without my guide, I tire in groping — 
I falter, but still say, 

Viewing the end alway, 

" He'll find me hoping. 

Happily hoping." 

Hawthornden, Sept. 1862. 



The Invasion. 

They come ! they come ! across the Maryland bor- 
der — 

Across the old Potomac's guarded shore ; 
" Aggressive warfare" is the fearful order — 

The North land now must drink its share of gore. 

Friends have been dreaming, while the foe was 
wary — 
They waited for salvation from the Lord — 
As if He'd guard our mountain land and prairie, 
With His right arm, without the unsheathed 
sword. 

Alas! my country ! blood, and without measure^ 
Must flow to wash our national sins away; 

And all our gold, and all oar human treasure, 
We must give up ! 'tis not enough to 'pray ! 

Thus far our people have been vainly proff'ring 
Their wealth and lives — far more than asked 
for — free ! 

Fanatic hands have marred the loyal off'ring, 
With deeds done in the name of Liberty. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 39 

Our generals plan and fight for their own glory, 
Hoping the Presidential chair to gain, 

And issue orders meant to live in story. 
While nameless heroes lie among the slain. 

And the few noble ones of our hearts' choosing, 
That brave men follow proudly to the field — 

Because of Government the means refusing — 
Have faced the foe and been compelled to yield. 

Our president, whose goodness all men honor. 
Still must bear blame for this our Country's woe, 

For there were hands raised to uphold our Banner, 
And blindly he refused to let them go. 

Our Congress, too, their holy trust abusing. 
Undo the weary work our arms have done — 

Their golden opportunities misusing, 

Marring with hell-born schemes each victory w^on. 

Oh! that the peo2:>le w^ere this hour uprising, 

Self-called to end the fratricidal strife- 
Waiting no more for Cabinet devising — 
Waiting no more for useless loss of life. 

If other than I am in sex or station, 

I'd show the loyal all these high -place crimes, 
And cry aloud to the endangered nation — 

Trust not the false or Mind, these perilous times 1 

What if my words should find for me a prison. 
If they took root in loyal hearts, and true? 

Or like the sun of heaven, when first arisen. 

Could liglit theui safely all the dark way through ? 



40 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

As well in prison might a true heart languish, 
For striving to unmask a secret foe, 

As to meet death, slow-poisoned with the anguish 
'Twould feel, a Country's ruin to foreknow. 

ViNELAND, N. J., Sept., 1862. 



On ! Bkothees, on ! 

^ir— "Hail to tbe Chief." 

On ! hrothers, on ! still undaunted and fearless, 

March through the perils blockading the way ; 
We m-ust he resolute, prayerful, and tearless, ., 
Fou must he willing and strong for the fray ! 
Strengthen then heart and hand, 
Make one more battle -stand — 
Fling high the banner now trailed in the dust! 
Down with the traitor "bars," 
Up with the Union " stars" — 
On then, oh ! brothers, in God be your trust ! 

On ! brothers, on ! till the strongholds are taken — 

On ! until Richmond no traitor can hide ! 
On ! till the heart of Secessia is shaken. 

On! till defeat shall have humbled her pride. 
Strike, then, with willing hand. 
Fight for our "Father-land" — 
Loyally venture — raise hope from the dust! 
Down with the traitor " bars" — 
Up witli the Union " stars" — 
On ! then, oh ! brothers, in God be your trust ! 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 41 

On ! brothers, on ! to the battles before jou ! 

On ! through the perils blockading tlie way ! 
On ! with the banner of Washington o'er you, 
True to the Country of Webster and Clay I 
Strike for the Union, then, 
Fearless and loyal men ! 
Fling high the Banner now trailed in the dust ! 
Down with the traitor bars, 
Up with the Union stars — 
On ! then, oh ! brothers, in God be your trust ! 

January, 1863. 



The Union Offering. 

The following lines were suggested by the receipt of a contribu- 
tion in gold, from a friend in California, to aid in furnishing a box 
of delicacies for the sick and wounded soldiers in Virginia. 

"Accept this gold," wrote the patriotic donor, "as a Union 
offering. Accept it for the sake of the loved ones who are in the 



Bright, shining gold ! sent on a patriot mission, 
From loyal California's sunset shore ; 

Sent with the simple, beautiful petition, 
"Accept it for the sake of those at war!" 

Pure gold ! no arithmetic rule may measure 
Tlie value of the gift that came so far ! 

No raiser ever kept his hoarded treasure 
As I shall this, for loved ones in the war ! 

'Tis Union gold ! covering its face in glory, 
I count with joy each lustrous Union Star ! 

They speak Columbia's immortal story — 
They tell why all my loved ones are at war ! 



42 PATRIOTIC POEMS 



1 



'Tis loyal gold! the Eagle on it mounted, 
Bends not above the traitor's crimson bar, 

"Whereon the stolen stars rebellion counted, — 
The stars for which our braves have gone to war. 

'Tis gold that flowed unasked from patriot coffers, 
Flowed freely to the need it saw afar — 

Flowed with the glorious words of this sweet offer — 
"Accept it for the sake of those at war!" 

'Tis gold that shall be reckoned with each token 
Held sacred as a soldier's battle-scar! 

And fain would I forever save unbroken 
This Union offering in Bisimion war! 

Thanks for the gold ! oh, loyal-hearted giver. 
Child of our Union's undimmed evening star ! 

Hope speeds fresh arrows from her shining quiver, 
At sight of Union Offerings in the war ! 

Washington's Birthday, 1863. 



I'm waiting, Haeky. 

I'm waiting at the door, Harry, 

And looking down the street. 
Just as I did the summer noon, 

V>'hen yonr departing feet 
Their last track left upon the sand. 

Their last sounds on the air, 
That died together with my words 

Of blessing and of prayer. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 43 

I'm thinking as I look, Harry, 

How only this last June, 
We came together up the road 

You've passed again so soon. 
I'm thinking what we thought of then, 

Our prospects, hopes, and plans. 
When first we saw how like 'twas here 

To our lost prairie lands. 

We told each other then, Harry, 

How home-like it would seem, — 
We did not know a trumpet-call 

Would wake us from the dream ; 
We knew that for your Country's sake 

You had enlisted twice. 
But when the Government said " wait," 

We thought it must suffice. 

I dare not wish you back, Harry, 

Unless the war should cease ; 
I only pray that we shall hail 

Together, friends and peace. 
I strive to cheer my heart all day 

W^ith looking for that joy. 
Asking of God that no great grief 

Shall cloud it or destroy. 

And so I wait with hope, Harry, 

With more of hope than fear. 
Although I count the creeping hours, 

Not always in good cheer ; 
Because you know I cannot be 

As happy while alone. 
As I shall be when you come back 

To claim again your own. 



44 PATRIOTIC POEMS 

The home we thought to make, Harrj, 

The new home by the hill, 
Lies all uncleared and desolate, 

Untenanted and still. 
The little house grows weather-stained, 

The underbrush grows tall, 
And nothing pleasant can be seen, 

Save wild flowers of the fall. 

But you are doing now, Harry, 

A nobler work by far. 
And I can wait for home and you. 

Until the end of war. 
Home would not be a home for me. 

However rich and grand, 
If built by hands that would not strike 

For our dear native land. 

You know that I shall wait, Harry, 

If Heaven spares my life, 
With strength and courage, worthy of 

A Union soldier's wife. 
Know, that the fragile form you feared 

Without your strength would fall, 
Shall l)e upheld by patriotism 

And faith, as by a wall. 

Then let it cheer your heart, Harry, 
To know that I am strong : 

And never fear I'm growing weak, 
Because time seems so long. 

But strike for Union and for Peace — 
For rights of every State — 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 45 

Then haste ! receiye the crown of love 
I'm wreathing while I icait. 

OCTOBEK, 18G2. 



MiLLICENT AND BaEBARA. 

The mansion on the hill — 
Tlie cabin by the rill — 
Beneath, the same grief-cloud were lying: 
Fair Millicent, the bride, 
AVith sorrow conquering pride, 
O'er all her "Hall" 
Roamed, wildly weeping, 

Mournfully sighing. 

Her sweetly tuned guitar, 
Uncared for since the war, 
She could not touch, 'twere useless trying ; 
The poets she loved best 
In hours of happy rest, 

{His gift) were left, 
Dust on them heaping. 

As time went flying. 

The blossomy cheek grew white — 
The heaven-blue eye lost light — 
Her step but echoed her hope dying. 
She walked in wild alarm, 
Eeaching out for the arm 

Once wound around 
Her, waking, sleeping, 

On that relying. 



46 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

And SO she pined awaj, 
Picturing a funeral day 
When death her tie should be untying — 
When crimson tides of war, 
Should gulf her guiding star, 
The pride, the guide 
Of brave men, — reaping 

Glorj in dying. 

Barbara, the lowlier one, 
Dwelling beside the run. 
That belt-like round the hill was lying, 
^fade for her liope no grave. 
But set her will to brave 

The weight, that fate 
Gave to her keeping. 

Without such sighing. 

The cabin, plain and small, 
And garden spot, were all 
She had — round these her thoughts were tying ; 
And they grew doubly dear, 
Seeming to keep anear, 

Each nook, the look 
That sent light creeping 

When clouds were flying. 

She gathered strength from this. 
And dreaming of the kiss 
He gave, to her last words replying. 
She went about her work, 
Letting no shadows lurk 

Upon the one 
Hope she was keeping. 

To hush all crying. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 47 

The ladj of the hill 
By chance came to the rill, 
In one of her sad hours of sighing, 
And then of Barbara learned 
HoiD strength of heart is earned — 

How tall a wall 
Her will was heaping, 

Of hojje undying ! 

Hawthornden, 1862. 



To Clinton and his Comrades. 

["Sister, we who fought together, until separated, wounded and 
imprisoned at the last of the 'Seven days battles,' have now met, 
safe and well, on the eve of another fight. Send us a poem of con- 
gratulation and encouragement."— jE'£c^/'ac^//'0??i a letter.} 

CoMEADES, hail ! I send you greeting — 

You are brothers all of mine ; 
Let me joy then in your meeting, 

Though it be in battle-line. 

I had sorrow in your parting, 
Amid cannon, smoke, and blaze — 

Night and day tears would be starting, 
Thinking of the " Seven Days." 

My heart kept beside you ever, 

Down the " on to Richmond" road ; 

Beating with your own forever, 

Bleeding when your brave blood flowed. 

Every pain your wounds were feeling. 
Every grief your true hearts bore. 

Thought and pity kept revealing — 
For you, wounding my heart's core. 



48 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Now all safe you meet together, 
Paths of peril to retrace — 

Streams to ford and storms to weather, 
And the foe again to face. 

May the God who still has guarded 
Each of you from death thus far, 

Keep the fatal bullets warded 

From your lives all through the war. 

But one boon I ask now, brothers ! 
On the eve of one more fray, 

More important than all others- 
Look to Jesus ! watch and pray ! 

May you all, each brave defender 
Of your Country's sacred right, 

Only to your God surrender. 
But be victors in the fight ! 

Then if comes another parting, 
Ere the dreaded battle's o'er, 

Brothers ! let it be your starting 
To an angel guarded shore. 

Hawthornden, Dec. 18G2. 



To liiY Soldier Brothers. 

I" The poem you sent iit our request was received, and read an 
we were drawn up in line of battle. The boys said fervently, ' God 

bless her I' and when marching to the front, S cried out, 

'Come on, boys ! never let our fighting sister say we failed to do 
our duty.' ""—E.vtractfrom a letter.'] 

In the mouth of rebel cannon. 
In the thickest bullet-hail. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 49 

Truly brave, ye did not falter, 
Strong in heart, ye did not fail ! 

Oh ! the highest praise of woman 
Seems a poor and mean reward, 

Tor the brave who use with valor 
Either bayonet or sword. 

Like the tide of old Atlantic 

Dashing on Virginia's shore, 
Eolls my love-tide, unknown heroes, 

Eound your steps forevermore ! 

" Never let our fighting sister 
Have the shanieftd words to say, 

That we failed to do our duty 
In the battle's front to-day." 

Proud am I that in the storming. 

All uncovered in its rain. 
Earnest words were bravely spoken, 

That I prayed for, not in vain ! 

Thus, brave brothers, all together. 

Gallant heroes that ye are. 
Deeds were done that might add lustre 

To the wearer of a star. 

Oh ! beloved ones, let me point you 
With unfailing strength of love, 

To the path of duty onward ! 
Over hills that lead above. 

Let, oh ! let the God of battles 
Be your Leader best beloved — 
4 



50 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Him^ no earthly power can hinder, 
He can never be removed. 

Hitherto His death-proof armor 
Has your perilled lives encased, 

And the poisoned cup His mercy 
Has not suffered you to taste. 

Courage, then, oh, loyal spirits ! 

Still hope on, oh, soldiers brave ; 
If you but unfurl God's Banner, 

You may conquer^ He may save I 

Hawthornden, Dec. 1862. 



The Soldiee's Smoking Song.* 

Air — "The days when we went gipsying." 

'Mid war's alarms we rest on arms. 

Between each fierce afl:ray. 
To find in rest the strength to breast 

The foe some future day ; 
And while we wait, uncertain fate, 

In battle's stern array, 
Wrapped in a cloak of happy smoke | 

We whiff our cares away. ) 



Repeat 



'Twas sweet beside Potomac's tide, 

In camp on Miner's Hill, 
But yet more sweet since our worn feet 

Left Malvern and Gaines' Mill ; 

* Sent with a present of pipes and tobacco. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 51 

At Aquia Creek, down Chesapeake, 

Since Fredericksburg's lost day. 
Only the cloak of happy smoke 

Can hide our cares away. 

On marches long, that tire the strong, 

The faithful pipe we fill ; 
The weary tramp, the idle camp, 

Both find us smoking still. 
By hardships worn, how could be borne 

The ills that throng our way, 
If in a cloak of happy smoke 

Care was not whified away ! 

Our life is rough, but while we puff 

The pipe that friends do fill, 
Our smoking song, each grateful tongue 

Unwearily will trill ; 
And Richmondward each gem and sword 

Shall point, the while we say — 
The7-e in the cloak of iattle smoke 

Shall Union gain her sway ! 

ViNELAND, Jan., 1863. 



A Soldier's Letter. 

Paraphrase of a letter hastily written in pencil, before, during, 
and after the action at Fredericksburg. 

Dear wife, it is a battle-eve — 

In line our host are forming, 
Ready to catch the word that shall 

Inaugurate the storming. 



62 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 



Swords, bayonets, are gleaming, 
And over all om* Eagle looks — 
O'er all our Flag is streaming. 

And now that danger's drawing near, 
Om- God draws even nearer ; 

We know no fear, though in this hour 
Earth's treasures grow still dearer ; 

But stand upheld by spirit strength, 
God's smile around us shining : 

Oh, easy task! thus armed, to face 
The shore that foes are lining. 



"We marched ; the enemy refused 

The city to surrender ; 
Our troops prepared to storm its walls — 

Each foe was its defender. 

The streets were blocked with armed brigades 

Pickets the outposts guarding : 
Our hosts in battle-line rolled on, — 

Then came the fierce bombarding. 

Flames wreathed the tallest city spire, 

Artillery death was dealing. 
And at the crossings of the streets 

The life-blood lay congealing. 



Yet on we marched, till, firm in line, 
We to the front were stepping. 

Abreast the storm of grape and shell 
That down our ranks went sweeping. 



I 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 53 

But all in vain our heroes fell — 

The crest we could not carry ; 
And though we fought, each brave heart knew 

'Twas only death to tarry ; — 

A soldier's death amid defeat, 

"Without the soldier's glory ; 
A patriot's death upon a field 

To he disgraced in story. 

The sorrow fell — the ruin came — 

Night covered us in pity — 
"While we, with decimated ranks, 

Stole from the ravaged city. 



And now the battle-storm has passed — 
The life-blood ceases flowing — 

'Tis well the proud, heroic dead 
Sleep on, the end unknowing. 

Thank God ! my love, that I am saved 
To serve my Country longer ! 

Though wounded, my unconquered heart 
Shall make my arm but stronger ! 



The Faded Chevkons. 

I KNOW of no keepsake more precious than they — 
/ braided them on, and yon wore them away ; 
The sad tears that fell left them none the less blue, 
But battles and tempests have tarnished their hue. 



54 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

I knew the strong arms that they graced would be 

brave ! 
I knew that wherever our banner should wave, 
E'en over red rivers of warm battle -wine, 
Those arms would be lifted, those chevrons would 

shine ! 

But duty now finished, they come back to be 
Warm welcomed, caressed, and safe treasured by 

me! 
Through the perilous fight — in storming the crest, 
They were carried by one to whom action was 

rest ! 
They were borne to the front, a signal of cheer ! 
They shone at the post when the danger drew near ; 
And now that the wearer, new honor has gained. 
Thrice welcome, worn chevrons! more welcome 

thus stained ! 

E'en the blue silken stitches that fastened them 

on, — 
The same azure threads that my needle had drawn, — 
Your love-guided hand in its gentleness left, 
To talk to the heart whom the war has bereft ; 
To speak of the day when the trial began — 
To remind of the field where the blood-rivers ran, 
And to say, with mute eloquence, words of cheer, 
"Oh, hope on forever ! he yet may be here !" 

May the higher insignia bravery gained. 

To cover the wound where the musket balls rained. 

Grow dim like the chevrons, yet brighten with 

deeds 
On fresh fields of gloi-y, where'er dutv leads 1 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 55 

My heart speeds you OQward ! I ask yea to go ! 
For Country ! for fame ! for the fall of the foe ! 
It wounds me to say it — it thrills me with fears — 
Still, still I repeat it, albeit tcith tears ! 

January, 1863. 



To Capt. George E. Duklap. 

Oh ! friend of our Country, hrave foe of its foes ! 
The tint of true glory around your name glows ; 
The lips that I love and are never untrue^ 
Award you the praises I know to be due ; 
And, oh ! if my pen fitting praises could frame, 
How soon would I garland with glory your name ! 

Ah ! many a tale of the war have I read, 

And baptized in the drops that my full heart has 

bled! 
But to few was accorded that greatness so rare, 
That circles with pity and girdles with care 
All comrades in arms, be they lowly or high, 
Because all are equal in daring to die! 

E'en now in forced absence your heart wanders 

back, 
Adown the long march, o'er a blood-painted track. 
In search of the braves whom you gallantly led 
To the field where you fought in the place of your 

dead.* 
Oh! long will the living remember and tell 
That act of their leader, loved warmly and well. 

* Capt. Dunlap took the gun and cartridge-box from the first 
man of his company who fell, and bravely tilled the places of offi- 
cer and private at one and the same time. 



56 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Though never again may you lead on, and cheer 
True hearts that are holding your memory dear, 
The thought of your marching in sickness and 

pain, 
The thought of your scorning to halt or complain, 
Will quicken their steps, should they wearily lag. 
And strengthen their hold on the "star-flowering" 

flag! 

Oh! friend of our Country, and friend of its 

friends ! 
Be with them in heart then, until the war ends. 
Still follow them onward, with hope and with 

prayer ; 
Eetain for them ever a generous care ; 
For they, as a watchword, henceforward will 

claim 
Their war-worn commander's insi)iring name ! 

April, 1863. 



To Lieut. Sample, on his Peomotion. 

My heart, awhile forgetting pain, 

Leaps up to wish you joy. 
And carols hush the sad refrain 

I chant so much, dear hoy I 
For thrills of sympathetic pride 

My life veins all pulsate, 
Since you, brave soldier, battle-tried, 

My brother's cherished mate. 
Have reached a path more high and wide, 

Where fame and honor wait. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 5t 

I wish you joy, throiigh perils past, 

In danger's awful face : 
In front of fiery columns, massed 

In death's own chosen place, 
Your untried feet were called to stand. 

Your musket took its aim, 
And leaf by leaf, your daring hand 

Gathered in battle flame 
The wreath that wins you this command, 

This honor, place, and name ! 

I wish you joy, for countless feet 

Marched in last summer's sun, 
Eager as yours, the foe to meet, 

Whose martial deeds are done ; 
And friends at home the laurels keep — 

Won, never to be worn 
By heads that all unpillowed sleep 

Where battle-flags were borne ; 
While you, befitting honors reap — 

Live, work, and may return ! 

Success attend you, gallant heart. 

Our prayers be still your shield ; 
God be with you in every part 

You take upon the field! 
Keep from dishonor's stain the sword, 

By patriotism won ; 
Unsheathe It on the battle sward. 

Bare it where blood-tides run ; 
With it Columbia's honor guard. 

As fits a loyal son ! 

Then hail, young hero, and farewell ! 
The kindest words must cease, 



58 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

And tenderest ones the heart must swell 

Untold, until there's peace. 
Adieu! adieu! I bid you go, 

Gird on the shining blade : 
Now only patriot joy I know 

To see you thus arrayed ; 
You only feel Columbia's woe, 

And scorn to be afraid. 

February, 1863. 



Falmouth Flowers. 

Faie flowers! a soldier's hand, his sword forget- 
ting, 

Shook from thy leaves the wild tears of the storm, 
And gathered thee before the sun's sad setting, 

Away from marching feet and war's alarm. 

Gathered thee from the fair Virginia valley — 
From Rappahannock's doubly guarded shore, 

Where Union soldiers still undaunted rally 
In bold brigade, and proud uuconquered corps. 

Yes, 'twas a soldier's hand that turned to gather 
The frail memorials of far happier springs. 

But 'twas the heart of Itvshniid and of father 
That drew the warrior down to tender things. 

And while he sought them, in green mosses hidden. 
And bound the blossoms in a bright bouquet. 

One tender tear stole down his cheek unbidden — 
A tribute to the loved ones far awav. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 59 

And over each he bent with fond caressing — 
On each a consecrating kiss was pressed — 

While with the richest of his store of blessing, 
The gifC of Southern flowers, the soldier blest. 

Oh, Falmouth flowers! spring buds of pink and 
amber ! 

The sweetness of those kisses lingers yet — 
The fragrance of the blessing fills the chamber 

Wherein the soldier's cherished gift is set. 

Virginian blossoms ! free from her dishonor — 
Sacred are ye because of that lone tear! 

The eye it dimmed is fixed npon a banner 

Whose guardsmen weep for love, but not for fear. 

Most precious are the tears shed by the daring — 
Most prized at home the true love of the brave — 

Most treasured, gifts from those whose fearless 
bearing 
Wins honor where the flags of battle wave. 

Soldiers, beloved ! may all, the sword resigning. 
Come safely in from this dark night of storm, 

To see the snn of Peace unclouded shining 

On flowers where no feet march at war's alarm ! 

ViNELAND, April, 1863. 



60 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 



Out in the Stokm. 

[" A few days ago, about one hundred sick soldiers were sent to 
Falmouth, to be transported to Aquia Creek, but there being no 
cars ready, the poor, sick, suffering men were compelled to lie out 
all night on the platform at the Depot, in the rain, without shel- 
ter." — Philadelphia Inq.] 

All the long black night unsheltered, 

O, God ! they had to lie, 
Under the wild rain's baptism — 

Under the starless sky ! 
All the long black night uncared for, 

A hundred of our brave, 
Who sprang at the call of Country, 

To guard it, and to save ! 

All voices of love and pity 

Were stifled in the storm, 
That pierced, like the hail of battle, 

Each soldier's prostrate form ! 
God ! must they bear such anguish? 

Must dying heroes lie 
At mercy of hands inhuman, 

Out in the storm to die ? 

Can we for the love of Country 

Urge on our brave to fight. 
With this fear to dampen courage — 

That in the stormy night 
They may lie at lonesome stations, 

Pierced to tlie heart with pain. 
Unsheltered and unprotected. 

Out in the winter rain ? 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 61 

Oh, yes, we must even bear it — 

We must look to the end ; 
But oh ! our Father in Heaven, 

Be tJio^i our soldiers' friend ! 
Oh ! touch with a pang of pity 

The hearts that are so hard ; 
Oh ! give to the suffering soldiers, 

At least a human guard ! 

February, 1863. 



Prayee in Camp. 

Peayer may be sweet in peaceful homes, 
"Wliere undivided households meet, 

Around the altar, morn and eve. 
Their pure thanksgivings to repeat. 

Prayer may be sweet in God's own house, 
Where reverent congregations kneel, 

While upward to the mercy-seat 
Ascends the worshipper's appeal. 

Prayer may be sweet in any spot. 
Where'er on earth that spot may be, 

Whether upon the pleasant land. 
Or on the blue and treacherous sea. 

But oh ! how sweet is prayer to him 
Who can a precious moment steal. 

Within the soldier's guarded camp. 
To ask for pardoning mercy's seal i 



62 PATRIOIC POEMS. 

Its sweetness every soldier's heart, 
If he but truly seeks, may know, 

And passing sweet will be the peace 
That with the tide of war shall flow. 

Hawthorndkn, Feb., 1863. 



Waiting foe Letters from the Army. 

C0UNTIN& all the hours of morning 

Ticking painfully away, 
Wait I for my hope's meridian. 

Gathering warmth in its sweet ray. 
From my eyes the light is shining — 

In my cheek I feel the bloom — 
"Wreaths of promises are twhiing 

Eound my heart's de'^erted room : 
'Tis the last day ere the Sabbath — 

I have waited all the week — 
I^ow I know it must be coming, 

To my patient heart to speak ! 

Through the woods the wind is breathing, 

With a sound akin to sighs. 
And beyond last summer's clearing. 

Dim, deceiving shadows rise ; 
Hark ! upon the leaf-strewn pathway 

Plainly now I hear steps fall — 
Ah ! 'tis no one that can answer 

To my heart's expectant call ! 

Pines ! stop murmuring for a moment — 
Idle wind, oh ! cease to play ; 

Grant to me a listening stillness — 
Lead no more my hope astray 1 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 63 

Ah ! I see the one I wait for — 
Heart of mine, beat not to break! 

For if hope hath no fruition, 

What's to soothe while thou must ache ? 

There ! I see the precious letter 

Peeping from his pocket deep — 
How my pulses thrill with pleasure ! 

How my thoughts triumphant leap ! 
Oh ! how could my heart deceive me ? 

How could Hope so falsely shine ? 
Dungeon walls of doubt shut round me, 

For the letter is not mine ! 

Saturday noon, Feb., 1863. 



England. 

"Island of bliss."— Thomson's Seasons. 

"The hope of every other land." — Montgo-meky. 

"Island of bliss!" the poet's song 

Word- paints the sunny side ; 
But view the other — watch the throng, 

O'ershadowed by the clouds of wrong 
That rich and poor divide. 
""' Island of bliss !" the great and strong 

May name it so in pride, 
But go the suffering 2>oor among, 
And hear how every starving tongue 

The falsehood can deride ! 

"The hope of every other land!" 
What hope of her have we f 



64 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Who but " perfidious England" fanned 
The flame that desolates our land, 

And blazes on our sea? 
'Tis well the light shows how she's planned 

With Slavery to agree ; 
'Tis well the blaze reveals the hand, 
Tliat feeds our fire with many a brand. 

To martyr Liberty ! 

'Twas England roused this feudal hate, 

Turning the friend to foe. 
Preaching at every household gate — 
Loud charging every ISTorthern State 

On this crusade to go ; 
Teaching one lesson, early, late, 

That we naught else might know — 
Foretelling ills that should await 
The heart that dared to hesitate 

To feel ideal woe. 

Enthroned upon her "isle of bliss" 

Sat she, the pharisee ! 
Judging of every act amiss- 
Asking, " was ever crime like this, 

Of Southern Slavery ?" 
Naming us with a sneer, a hiss, 

For our barbarity — 
Offering anon a Judas' kiss — 
Luring us to the sacrifice — 

Binding thereby the free ! 

For this our curse do we bequeath 
To Albion, hated foe ! 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 65 

The sword she caused us to unsheathe, 
Already meditates her death, 

And vows her heart a blow ; 
We curse her with our deeye^t hreath^ 

Ourse her for war and woe — 
Curse her at every loyal hearth — 
Curse every rod of her green earth — 

With eiery Might ice hnow. 

" The hope of other lands" indeed ! 

Three times the hope of this ! 
A hope that proved a broken reed — 
A hope that failed in time of need. 

But one no more we miss. 
Columbia's heart can bear to bleed. 

Immortal as it is, 
Until the free again are freed ; 
Turn then^ oh ! Union hosts, with speed, 

'Gainst Britain's " Isle of bliss !" 

October, 1862. 



Lines 

Inscribed to Mr. S. Russ, on receiving from him a gift for past 
kindnesses to his noble young son, who fell in the battle of Freder- 
icksburg, Dec. 13th, 1S62. 

Foe the sake of the brave one now dreamlesrly 

sleeping 
In a grave un baptized by the tears you are weeping, 
1 accept from your hands this unmerited token, 
Of a friendship that springs from a brotherhood 

broken, 

5 



66 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

I accept it, oh ! friend, with a grief-subdued pleas- 
ure — 

Bought with blood of your blood, your life's war- 
scattered treasure ! 

And I keep it, and pray, in the fulness of feeling, 

That the Peace born of War will bring balm for 
your healing — 

That the silvery brightness these clouds must be 
lining, 

Ere long, will your beautiful gift be outshining. 

Oh ! I would that tlie love we were gratefully keep- 
ing 

For the soldier, who lies on the battle-ground sleep- 
ing, 

Could have saved him for you, who were waiting 
and yearning 

For the homeward-bound tread of the never re- 
turning. 

Yes, I would it were so ! but that step did not fal- 
ter. 
Till your gift to your Country was laid on its altar — 
Till the form that stood firm, all the dread danger 

daring, 
Gave up life for the love of the Flag he was bearing, 
And the dear name, engraved on this gift of your 

giving. 
Was enrolled at his death in the hearts of the living. 

For the sake, then, of him whom we honor, now 

sleeping 
Where the soldiers of Union strong guard are still 

keeping, 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 67 

I accept, with these thanks, so imperfectly spoken, 
The debt that you owed not, as friendship's sweet 
token. 

ViNELAND, N. J. 



Is ouK Flag still there? 

The hosts of the Union were gathered below, 
At the base of the Eidge, in the Tennessee Val- 
ley,— 
The summit was crowned with the ilag of the foe, 
Where the brave, but misguided, that day were 
to rally. 
Up the perilous height, by the banner's star- 
light, 
Three regiments gallantly marched to the 
fight; 
The death-rain was falling — clouds darkened the 

air — 
In the valley was murmured, " Our Flag — is it 
there ?" 

Death stillness pervaded the long battle-line — 
While they gazed toward the summit, half hoping, 
half fearing, 
Would the banner stars out of the war-cloud shine, 
Or in vain did they wait their triumphant ap- 
pearing ? 
Moments lengthened to years — hopes were 

yielding to fears, 
And soldier eyes dimmed with the dimness of 

tears ; 
The fearful suspense grew akin to despair — 



68 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

" Our Flag!" breathed the line, "is it there? is it 

there ?" 
Then the daring and terrible work was done, 
And the smoke of the conflict was fast disappear- 
ing; 
And out of eclipse o'er the height that was won, 
Shone our bright guiding stars with efl\dgence 
heart-cheering ; 
And the question of dread, that from lip to lip 

fled. 
Was answered in looking to where it had led ! 
For gone was suspense, and subdued was despair, 
As the answer resounded, "Our Flag is still 
there!" 

Oh ! the hosts in the valley of Tennessee — 
The bold handful that won the strong Ridge by 
their daring — 
All hearts beating time to the Flag of the Free, 
The deep joy of that moment together are shar- 
ing. 
For the Flag that we wave is the Flag of the 

Brave 1 
The Banner of beauty our forefathers gave ! 
Its stars shall shine on uneclipsed by despair — 
All voices united shall own it is there ! 

December, 18C3. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 69 



SpRiNa Snow. 

"From his thick, wavy chestnut hair, I severed a single curf. 
Looking upon its rich darkness, I wondered if ever the hand of 
time would place among tlieir kindred tresses its threads of sil- 
ver." — Viiie Lodge, Ills., 1S52. 

Last fall he came on furlough but a day and a half. His hair was 
thickly threaded witii gray, and lie not twenty-one. — 1862. 

Oh I words of the beautiful years gone by, 

At home, in tlie bright summer land ! 
My sorrowful spirit is questioning why, 
When I look under laslies scarcely dry, 
These by-gones must happen at hand ; 

Bygones 
All registered by my own hand ! 

The sunshine and shadows of sixteen years 

Had brightened and deepened for me, 
A life that now, looking backward, appears 
All cleared of the clouds that wept April tears, 
As fair as a morning could lie! 

More fair 
Than the noon of my life can be ! 

And he, the beautiful child at my side, 

Whose summers were fewer than mine, 
Stood radiant in the light of my pride, 
Whose strength to the might of my love was allied, 
And poured out for him like new wine ! 

Would God, 
His life I could keep with such wine ! 

Away from his wavy and chestnut hair, 
I had severed a single ring, 



70 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Wondering if Time in bis passage could dare 
To place in the locks on Ms temples fair 

The snow that life's winter must bring — 
The snow 

I only thought winter could bring! 

Ah! that was the thought of my sixteen years, 

The dream of a blossoming time ; 
A hope from beyond the shadow of fears — 
A heart-beam that never was dimmed by tears — 

The theme of a girl's heart in rhyme. 
'Tis sad 

That life's prose differs so from the rhyme. 

The years that have fled since that dream, how few 1 

Scarce time for the blossoms to fall — 
Scarce time for a cloud on a sky so blue — 
Scarce time for a shade the light to subdue, 
Yet it dimmed and it darkened all! 

One cloud 
O'ershadowed and darkened it all. 

And he, the beautiful boy from my side, 

Went out in the dark of the storm I 
I noted his courage with untold pride^ 
Beauty and bravery in him were allied. 

And my heart followed after his form ; 
To hreah^ 

If, battle-struck, fell that fair form. 



lie came in a lull of the strife again. 

Came home with his beauty so dim, 
And a look that ranked him with bearded men, 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. Tl 

And sent back ray thouglits to the morning, when 
I painted the future for him, 

Painted 
The dawn of his manhood for him. 

Away from his wavy and chestnut hair, 

Again I selected a ring; 
But, oh ! how the shock of his battles there 
Had silvered the locks on his temples fair. 

And brought down the snow in his spring — 
The snow 

That ought not to fall in the spring 

I know it is all for the land of his pride 

His Maydays have ended so soon ; 
I know that he could not stay at my side. 
In a garden of roses from duty to hide, 

Though life was yet far from its noon — 
Though life 

Might never for Mm reach its noon ! 

So if ever again he is at my side. 

Though only a hope-laden wreck, 
If he but the dark of the storm may outride, 
The storm of rebellion he bravely defied. 

Green laurel his spring snow shall deck, 
Laurel 

The snow of his spring-time shall deck ! 



Lines to the Loyal. 

The day and the hour of trial is nigh — 
The time for decision's at hand • 



t2 PATRIOTIC POEMS 

Our soldiers in front shout, homeward the cry, 
" Come, fill np the places of those who die, 
Come, aid us in battle to stand!" 

Our feet may not march at the patriot call, 

Our places are not in the line — 
But ours is the task of dissevering all 
Those ties that the hearts of the brave enthrall — 

The ties that the strongest entwine. 

Then let not a daughter of our free land, 

Be known in the trial to fail; 
Let not an American woman's hand 
Burn one loyal brow with the coward 's brand, 

Or tempt a true spirit to quail. 

Be ours the glory of sending them forth, 
And. bidding them bravely God-speed ! 
And ours the courage befitting free birth. 
Of guiding our children and guarding our hearth. 
As long as our country has need. 

Be ours the honor of urging them all 

To fill up the ranks of the slain ; 
And ours the spirit to echo the call 
Ringing back from the fields where shot, shell, and 
ball 

Are harvesting men like ripe grain. 

Be ours the fitness for action like this. 

And. ours shall be the reward ; 
The sorrowful thrill of the farewell kiss 
Cannot wholly overwhelm the sense of bliss 

Fulfilment of duty affords. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 73 

How bright then the dawning of Peace will seem, 

How welcome its radiant ray, 
When the stars on the battle-banners beam, 
And the well-worn swords and bayonets gleam — 

As they turn from the strife away ! 

And the brightest beams of that glorious sun 

Will the patriot's toil repay ; 
And the greenest wreath when the victory's won, 
The richest crown when tlie duty is done, 

Will he for the trave of to-day ! 

God grant that the women of this our land 

May be patriots pure in heart ; 
God give them the spirit and strength to stand 
A resolute, brave, invincible band. 

Armed well for their diificult part. 

God grant to the daughters of this our State 

Of true courage a double share. 
To inspire her sons with the purpose great 
Of manfully marching to any fate. 

Where our banner the brave may bear. 

The time of the trial has come ! has come ! 

Now greet we our veterans with cheers ! 
Shout, patriot voices ! let none be dumb — 
Beat, loyal hearts ! to the roll of the drum, 

For our men must be volunteers ! 

MiLLViLLE, Aug. 4th, 18G3. 



14 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 



Hymn on the Battle-field. 

[A Christian officer, who fell mortally wounded, in the battle of 
Sliiloh (or Pittsburg Landing), related of himself and fellow-mar- 
tyrs to the Union cause this thrilling incident, while being removed 
from the lield, just before bis death. The hymn sang by the 
wounded and dying was that old familiar one, 
" When I can read my title clear 
To mansions in the skies," etc.] 

When Shiloh's awful strife was fiercest raging, 
Our heroes fast at posts of peril fell, 

While onward swept the dauntless braves engaging 
Hosts hurled against the Flag they loved so well. 

Battalion on battalion forward rushing. 
Met masses firm as they, in deadly strife. 

Till hurrying feet friend, foe, alike were crushing, 
And the red field drank deep the rills of life. 

The agony of thirst came to the dying, 
Its frenzy burned in every suffering frame; 

Yet none relieved, nor voice was heard replying 
To calls of some dear love's remembered name. 

Kain fell — wept from the pitying, far off- heaven, 
Like human tears, upon the scene of blood ; 

Yet none might drink : oh, God must hs^yQ forgiven 
If any doubted then that He was good ! 

At last the night-shades fell, and stars in beauty. 
Like angel eyes, beamed down on death-struck 
men ; 
" God''s soldiers'' they, martyred in paths of duty, 
"God's soldiers" still, though work was over 
then. 



PATRIOTIC POMES. 75 

A Christian hero there, whose wounds were mortal, 
Gazing toward heaven with looks of faith and 
love. 

Had glimpses, through the high and pearlj portal, 
Of palms of victory waving bright above. 

New strength of soul unto his voice gave volume, 
And sweet and clear rose his triumphant hymn. 

Thrilling the spirits of the death-claimed column — 
Brightening again the eyes grown glazed and dim. 

Another voice glided into the singing — 
Another and another caught the strain. 

Until the notes of that strange choir were ringing 
All over Shiloh's gory battle plain. 

It was a simple hymn, whose words are written 

In every memory, on every heart ; 
But known by none as by our braves, death-smitten, 

When they and human love lay wide apart. 

Thank God ! theirs was, indeed, a death of glory — 
I would that all our slain, like them, could die — 

No need of grief that their last bed was gory, 
Since they arose " to mansions in the sky." 

MiLLTILLE HO?EL, Allg. 25th, 1863. 



God will caee for Mother now. 

Written in compliance with a soldier's request, in answer to 
Who will care for Mother now?" 

SoLDiEE ! on the red field lying, 
With death-dew upon your brow, 



76 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

Asking in the hour of dying, 

" Who will care for mother now?" 

Take no sad thought for the morrow, 
As ye to the mandate bow ; 

See the promise span your sorrow — 
God will care for mother now ! 

Chorus. — Soon discharged from earthly duty. 
You will see, oh, soldier, how, 
From the tents of heavenly beauty, 
God will care for mother now. 

She will need no soldier's guarding ; 

At your post an angel stands, 
All the danger from her warding 

On her march to safer lands. 
You are marching on before her,. 

In the front to fate you bow, 
Leaving still the old Flag o'er her. 

And a God to shield her now. 

Chorus. — Soon discharged, etc. 

Then upon your knapsack lying. 

Since your duty's bravely done. 
Take sweet comfort in thus dying — 

Patriot hero ! fiiithful son ! 
When discharged from earthly duty, 

You will see, oh, soldier, how. 
From the tents of heavenly beauty 

God will care for mother now ! 
Chorus. — Soon discharged, etc. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 11 



Mustered out. 

The grave of an unknown soldier at Newport News, Ya., is 
marked by tlie headstone, bearing only this touching and poetic 
epitaph — 

"A soldier of the Union mustered out." 

Lkwisburo Chronicle. 

ISTew deinnitions taught by war's great woe, 
Our old familiar words come round about, 

And the same meaning when we saw them go, 
Is not the meaning now of "mustered out." 

When first the cannon-call from Sumter came — 
When first uprose the Union's answering shout, 

We named with pride each ready patriot's name, 
(Gone from the roll since then — all "mustered 
out.") 

Gone from the roll, and smitten down " un'known^'' 
When found at that last post upon the route ; 

Left folded in the honored blue — each gallant one — 
As he, by war's red hand was "mustered out!" 

But yet a higher meaning may we give, 

Whence Hope may buoyant rise to vanquish 
doubt ; 

For does not Christ, the Christian's captain live. 
To lead Ms soldiers home when " mustered out?" 

We shall not be tlie first to greet them there — 
Our earthly camps we yet must guard about ; 

But can we not look up in faith to where 
They walk the God- lit streets, all " mustered out ?" 

April 20, 1864. 



18 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 



The Tei-coloked Neck-tie. 

One of the days in winter 

That make us dream of spring, 

The children toward the pine-woods 
Flew out, like birds on wing. 

Anear the oaken bushes, 

Skirting the green woods lone. 

Moss tufts, like emerald brooches, 
On earth's brown bosom shone. 

And there the light feet lingered, 
And the busj hands, at play, 

Found under dead leaves, hidden 
From looks of love away. 

The gay tri-colored neck-tie 

A volunteer had worn. 
Before he to the battles 

By Country-love was borne. 

Ah ! one of many relics 
Of absent ones and brave, 

Who bear the Stripes of Union, 
Its every Star to save ! 

Uncounted are the households. 
Where gentle hands do hide 

Mementoes of the soldier, 

Whose bravery has been tried. 

We look upon them always — 
A cap is just at hand — 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 79 

A curl is wrapped in paper — 
A picture's on the stand. 

Oh ! insuflBcient treasures 

To keep the heart at rest ! 
When with the old-time measure 

Of bliss, shall home be blest ? 

Ah ! not till this mad tempest 

Of rebel wrath shall cease — 
Not till the Stars of Union 

Shall sing the hymn of Peace ! 

February 11, 1863. 



The Crimson Cross. 

Anothek relic for the little dark red box, 
That all my grief-bought treasures of the war in- 
locks ; 

Another keepsake of the proud, brave-hearted one. 
Whose badge it was where red work of the war was 
done. 

He told me, sitting here, one golden afternoon, 
(One of the rich, glad days of furlough, spent so soon), 

How in the fearful storming of the crest, unwon, 
At Fredricksburg, the crimson Maltese cross went on, 

A.nd blazed upon his cap, when in the rank in front 
The regiment went up to bear the battle's brunt. 



80 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

And it was there, when standing proudly side by side 
Between the ebb and flow of battle's gory tide, 

A bursting shell baptized the cross in deeper stains — 
In scarlet tides of life spilled from a comrade's veins. 

Oh! blood-dyed cross! it was the fittest emblem 

then, 
To shine before the eyes of all those dying men. 

Red with the life of one who fell for Country there. 
It preached of Him, who once the Cross of sins did 
bear, 

And lifted up before the wounded sufferer's eyes 
The badge of those enlisted here for Paradise. 

And still, oh Cross! another meaning sadly comes, 
Beaten upon my heart, as beats the funeral drums. 

Its fiery color is the sanguinary tint 

That bloody battles on Columbia's fields imprint. 

Its burning hue is like the war-pressed wines that still. 
The trenches round our Country's altar fill — 

Rich wines of life that from our sacrifices bleed — 
Spilled for the Nation's sin — shed for the Country's 
need. 

Oh, emble!iiatic Cross ! symbolical of paia. 

How long must it be red with passion-flower stain ? 

How long must wounded hearts and bleeding bodies 

lie. 
Signed with its sign in cruel war's carnation dye ? 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. .81 

But Still, oh, crimson cross! there is a meaning yet, 
That war and woe must tempt no spirit to forget. 

The roseate flush that warms the morning's sombre 
Is the sure promise of the dawning light of day 

The rich bloom on the petals that in April shoot, 
Betoken next September's wealth of ripened fruit. 

So does the Cross that burns on many a soldier's 
brow, 

To glance and gleam like lightning down the war- 
path now. 

Betoken more than present blood and treasure lost — 
More than the bleeding mark with which our hearts 
are crossed. 

And know we by this sign that war must ere long 

cease — 
That blood-bought fields will bear for us the fruits 

of peace. 

Know we, the Cross with which our suffering hearts 

are signed. 
Shall prove the title to the crowns our brows may 

bind. 

Thus can we bear for future gain all present loss — 
Accept war's gory baptism — take up its reddened 
Cross. 

6 



82 PATRIOTIC POEMS, 



The Bonnie Blue Steipes. 

[Addressed to a young brother at Bermuda Hundred, on receiv- 
ing from him his worn-out chevrons, which were just replaced by 
new ones, denoting a promotion.] 

The bonnie blue stripes from your own brave arm, 
With my tears lying fresh on their stains, 

Shall be folded away from battle's harm, 
And away from Virginia rains. 

Like the stripes so worn, in that sad campaign, 
That we hoped would liave ended the fight, 

They'll be kept with love that is born of pain, — 
Kept sacred alone for love's sight. 

Together those glorious stripes shall be 

With the faded, tri-colored tie — 
With the red-set ring from the Libby free — 

With all I remember you by. 

With the trefoil, blue as the banner's sky — 
With the Cross that was dyed in blood — 

With the little gloves that I held you by — 
Regretting for once my womanhood. 

Together, together, I lock them in — 

All my relics of price untold ; 
I'd barter them only for strength to win 

The field where our Flag-stripes unfold! 

Cushion Mountain, 
National Fast day, 1864. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 83 



To MY Beothee in Tennessee. 

You looked in upon my dreams last night, 
With your dark eye bright as ever ; 

You spoke with cheer of the coming fight, 
But sighed o'er the ties we sever. 

My spirit spanned with the dreamer's bridge 

The beautiful dark blue river, 
And onward marched to vale and ridge, 

Where cavalry lances shiver. 

On ! with the yearning a sister knows 

For the weal of a brave brother, 
I sped from where the Ohio flows — 

On ! on ! till we clasped each other. 

But the morning light came breaking in, 

And I and my soldier parted — 
You with your sword to battle and win — 

I, to turn backward, lone-hearted. 

The dream bridge that the Ohio spanned 
Broke down when my soul passed over. 

And my dim, dim look where I saw you stand, 
Saw danger around you hover. 

If you but wore the armor of God, 
That is proof against temptation — 

If I knew your untried feet were shod 
With the Gospel preparation — 



84 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

If I saw you girt about with truth — 
Armed with the sword of the Spirit, 

And with faith to shield your tempted youth, 
I might see^ yet no more /ear it. 

As it is, I watch you out of sight — 
I pray for your soul's salvation — 

I gaze towards the sunrise hills all night 
For dawn, to end supplication. 

April 26th, 1864. 



Battle-field Blossomings. ^ 

" I saw on the battle-field, prettj-, pure, delicate flowers, growing 
out of empty ammunition boxes, a rose blooming in a broken Union 
drum, and scarlet verbena peeping out of a bursted shell." 

Unfolding freshly at Bull Run, 

Arose the flowers from earth's scarred breast; 
Frail victors of a field, unwon 

By strength that ticice their frailness pressed. 

Pale buds in cartridge-boxes blow — 

A rose uplifts its graceful head 
Within a Union drum, left low 

Beside the gallant Union dead. 

Verbenas from a bursted shell, 

In crimson colors brightly burn. 
And many a blossoming cup and bell 

Garland the dead for whom we mourn. 

So shall the beautiful and true 

Again grow out of fearful things ; 
So shall the heart its strength renew, 

Amid all scenes the conflict brings. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 85 

All battle-fields again may bloom, 
As blooms to-day the lost Bull Run, 

And from the dread war's crowded tomb 
Will bud the fruits of duty done. 

Peace from the war-path ever springs, 

As death leads into larger life; 
Joy after sorrow more joy brings ; 

Rest is the sweeter for the strife. 

1863. 



The Southekn Voice. 

The feeling -which dictated the following, may be accounted for 
by the statement that early associations rendered dear the pecu- 
liarities of Southern language. After long separation from Southern 
friends, during which "a great gulf" has been fixed between us, 
the sound of a Southern voice in Northern streets moved me to 
tears, and awakened never-to-be-forgatten memories. 

A TUMULT shook the street below — 

Alone was I, and musing, 
Unmoved by the surging to and fro, 

The gathering and uprising. 

The angry shouts had reached my ear, 

And language soul corrupting. 
But I only heard as dreamers hear, 

My thoughts uninterrupting ; 

Till on the air a voice rang out. 

Young, brave, yet God-defying, 
That touched me with its rebel shout, 

And caught my soul replying. 



86 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

The voice was strange, but not the way 
In which the words were spoken ; 

That accent still is dear to-day 
Despite the Union broken. 

The words were words I may not speak — 

Words not for my repeating, 
But they called the warm blood to my cheek, 

From the heart they set abeating. 

The reckless words, the voice unknown, 

Caused not the agitation — 
'Twas the nameless something in the tone. 

The simple 2>Tonunciation. 

'Twas the way that many a lost voice had 

Bearing to me relation, 
"When the Korth and South together made 

An undivided Nation. 

Oh ! voices of the sweet, lost land, 
That once our songs were singing, 

Float to the border where I stand, 
With all that South-sound ringing ! 

Float to the border and with mine 

Join in a Union chorus ! 
Oh ! praise once more in loyal line 

The Flag that's waving o'er us ! 

Without that nameless Southern charm ! 

Their own pronunciation, 
Old Union songs can never warm 

The chilled heart of the Nation. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 87 

I know we stand beneath the stars 

On the old banner gleaming, 
While they uphold the blood-djed bars 

Above their ruins streaming ; 

Still, still, I cannot learn to feel 

The hate this war's begetting — 
The sweet old memories reveal 

A love there's no forgetting. 

MiLLViLLE Hotel, August, 1863 



The Blue Violets. 

" Oh ! what tender thoughts beneath 
Those violets blue were lying." — Moore. 

The battle raged. Where Hancock led, 
A fair boy -soldier w^ounded fell, 

Amid the thickest of the slain. 
Under the hail of grape and shell. 

No hand of pitying friend or foe 
Removed him from his gory bed ; 

His own strong heart beat on, alone — 
Whole regiments of souls had fled ! 

Faint with the loss of blood he grew ; 

Yet bearing up against his pain, 
He culled the sweet blue violets 

That bloomed out in that battle-rain. 

Fainter, yet fainter grew the boy, 
And still among the dead he lay ; 

But in his hand and on his heart 
He kept the blood-baptized bouquet. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 

They found him thus, thank God ! in time — 
Though he had lain a weary while, 

Clasping his ftiithful violets — 

Wearing a "brave, sweet, touching smile." 

June, 1864. 



The Dead Picket. 

" On the field where our cavalry engaged the enemy, lay a beauti- 
ful garden, clothed in all the loveliness that rare plants and South- 
ern flowers could give it. The smiling magnolias and tlie roses 
seemed to stand guard over deserted premises. I entered 
through an open gate, stooped to pluck a rose, and so doing, dis- 
covered a rebel picket lying partially covered by the grass and 
flowers, (lead. 

" He was a noble-looking man, and upon his countenance there 
seemed to rest the remnant of a smile. Ilis right hand clasped a 
rose, wliicli he was in the act of severing from its stem when he 
received the messenger of death. In the afternoon the cavalry 
dug a narrow grave, and with Federal soldiers for pall-bearers, 
and the beautiful flowers for mourners, he was laid to rest, the 
rose still clasped in his stiffened hand. Nothing was found to 
identify him. His name and history lie entombed in his lonely 
grave, and no sister's tears will baptize the spot where the dead 
picket fell." — Cincinnati Commercial. 

Dead! where his beautiful Georgian sky 
Unfurled its broad banner of blue ; 

Dead, where the odorous breezes swept by, 
His beat with bright blossoms to strew. 

Dead, where the plants of the South -land rare, 
His footsteps like fairy-wands barred ; 

Where the graceful magnolias smiling fair 
And the roses o'er him stood guard. 

Dead, 'mid the treasures he guarded in vain — 
Dead there at liis flowery post ! 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 89 

Dead to his treasure, and dead to his pain, 
And dead to the cause he had lost. 

Dead, all alone on that garden's green sod, 
Enshrouded with blossoms the while ; 

Dead, with a face in the image of God, 
Half-lit with a death-broken smile. 

Dead, with his right hand caressing a rose. 
That he clasped as his summons came — 

Thus called, who else save his Father knows 
What measure to mete Mm of blame ! 

Found dead by the guardsmen of Union there, 
They gathered as friends in a band, 

And laid him to rest in his garden fair, 
With the rose in his stiffened hand. 

No epitaph stories the picket's fate, 

His grave among roses may lie. 
The name^ letter deeds might have rendered great, 

Unknoion^ at Ms death had to die ! 

Sad "grave among roses!" oh, Georgian stars. 
When ye picket your post of our world. 

Gaze Mildly, though he for the crimson bars 
Left the Flag that his fathers unfurled. 

May 28th, 1864. 



90 PATRIOTIC POEM! 



After the Battle. 

[The following lines were suggested by a correspondent's letter 
to the Cincinnati Comvnercial, dated in the field, near Eesaca, 
•Georgia, May 16th, 1S64] 

The brilliant sun of a Georgian sky 
Smiled down on a green savanna; 

The Flag of the South blazed in its raj, 
It lit the stars on our banner! 

But the battle-shock had passed away, 
And the heated blood ran colder, 

Eound the hearts which that eventful day 
By their pain grew ages older. 

An angel came to them softly then — 

An angel of heavenly beauty — 
Inspiring the souls of those suffering men 

Unto Christ-like deeds of duty. 

The ghastly wound of a Union brave. 
Who had been his Flag's bold bearer, 

Was bound by a hand that late did wave 
A banner he thought was fairer. 

And together fell, our standard near, 

A foe and a true defender. 
And the Federal canteen gave its cheer 

From a hand both brave and tender. 

For the battle-shock had passed away — 
It had left them in the trenches, 

And lie's true friend, who, after the fray, 
The thirst of his fellow quenches. 



PATRIOTIC POEMS. 91 

A common want and a common woe 
Knit hearts anew to each other, — 
One Father above — none else below — 

Each foe was a new-found brother. 

By this^ hold we faith that our common land 

Union forever shall cherish ! 
For after the 'battle^ that promise spanned 

The pit where we thought to perish. 

May 28th, 1864. 



IDYLS OF HOME- 



IDYLS OF HOME. 



The Old Place. 

The orcliard with its tinted leaves, 

The hollow's tangled steep, 
The old tree where the vine still cleaves, 

I visit in my sleep ; 
And ever like a mourning dove 
I linger round the home I love. 

The Indian summer's brilliant light 

Gilds many a lovelier scene, 
But there's for me no spot more bright, 

No place more still, serene ; 
The sun could not more kindly smile 
On the most favored southern isle ; 

For there is love in every beam. 

That gently falls asleep 
Upon the lowly shaded stream. 

And on the hillside steep. 
Yes, they are smiles of love, and still 
They make my heart with sorrow thrill. 

And when the early shadows flit 
Across the velvet lawn. 



IDYLSOFHOME. 93 

Sweet sadness quivers in the light 

Of blushing, rosy dawn. 
Yes, sadness wells up in my heart. 
For with the dear old place I part. 

ril bid the winds breathe my farewell 

When evening hushes earth, 
And the song-bird shall my parting tell 

When there's no sound of mirth. 
Oh! sorrow fills my tear-dimmed eye — 
I leave thee ! hear my last good by ! 

Hope Farm, Oct. 29, 1850. 



LoYED Scenes. 

Oh ! for the dimly lighted woods, 

The paths I love so well ! 
How oft my spirit yearns to go 

Where the cool shadows dwell ! 
To feel the free, unfettered wind, 

That God alone can quell, 
Freighted with fragrance from the flowers 

That garland the green dell. 

Oh ! for the clear and dimpled stream, 

Where sunset's farewell ray 
Is wont to linger like a smile 

Upon the waves at play. 
The tuneful purling of those waves 

Is Nature's gentlest hymn. 
Low chanted in the forest aisles 

Of God's cathedral dim. 



94 IDYLS OF HOME. 

Oh ! for the haunts I used to love, 

Each green and grassy dell, 
Where even angels might delight 

A summer hour to dwell. 
There I could sit for hours alone, 

And drink in every strain 
That wild bii»ds carol in their joy, 

And then repeat again. 

Oh ! that my feet might press once more, 

With light elastic tread, 
Those dear old paths where first the flowers 

Upraise their lovely heads. 
Oh ! that my hand might gather there 

The roses pure and white, 
Which, faded, typify the thoughts 

That dim my spirit-light. 

Oh ! ere the clouds of winter life 

Have shadowed summer dreams, 
Or dinnned the light of one bright hope 

That in my bosom beams, 
I'll seek again those shadowy woods, 

And purling streamlet's side, 
Wltli every feeling, every thought 

Pure as its silvery tide. 

St. Louis, Mo., 1853. 



Thoughts of Home. 

Over my heart is stealing 
A yearning all in vain — 

An eager, longing feeling 
To be at home again. 



IDYLS OF HOME. • 95 

Scenes, mj memory's keeping, 

Grow bright when I'm alone : 
Homesick, 1 sit here weeping, 

And hear no loving tone. 

The air to-day is breathing 

Something of dear ones there. 
While I am busy wreathing 

Pale flowers of thought, and fair. 

Oh ! this is useless pining ! 

I know it may not be, 
Though firm the cords are twining 

That bind that home to me. 

"Whenever I grow weary, 

Whene'er the world seems cold. 

O'er all that's dark and dreary, 
My thoughts fly to that fold. 



Deeam Visit to Feuitland. 

Thoijght bears me on its tireless wing 

To my deserted home, 
And I can enter there to-night. 

Unnoticed and unknown. 

Once more I reach the well-known place- 

I stand outside the gate — 
I open it — I enter in — 

I can no longer wait. 

My feet are treading the old path 
Around the wild-rose bower, 



96 IDYLS OF HOME. 

Where I have passed, in childish play, 
Many a free, glad hour. 

And now I stand upon the step, 
Before the wide old door — 

I raise the latch and cross the sill 
As in the days of yore. 

But where are the familiar things 
That once were in this room ? 

I wish the sun were shining now 
To dissipate the gloom. 

I'm weary and I long for rest — 

Where is n)y easy-chair? 
Is nothing here I used to own ? 

Where are they then, oh ! where ? 

I cannot see my favorite stand. 
With tiny drawers inside, 

The work of one who used to do 
Such things in loving pride. 

And where is now the old arm-chair 

That stood in quiet grace 
In its warm corner by the fire. 

Its old accustomed place ? 

And Where's the clock ? T cannot hear 

The dear familiar sound. 
That used to keep me company 

When lonely days came round. 

And Elsie's little carriage, too. 
It is not at the door ; 



IDYLS OF HOME. 9*7 

I always left it standing there 
When I was here before. 

Oh! I must leave this altered place, 

It is no longer home ! 
I knew, I knew it must be changed — 

Alas ! why did I come? 

The thorns lie thickly strewn around 

Beneath the locust tree ; 
The flowers are gone, but they remain 

Sharp as they used to be. 

They're hidden in the tangled grass, 

They prick my weary feet, 
And even the low thorny limbs 

Droop down my brow to meet. 

Come, come away from this, my soul. 

Fly from so dark a scene : 
Awake, awake ! and dream no more 

Of things that once have been. 

The place so brightly beautiful, 

The home of bygone years, 
Is lost, and never can be bought 

With vain, regretful tears. 

Then linger not, my soul, for rest. 

Where rest has been denied ; 
There's other fairer homes, faint heart ! 

Thou knowest the world is wide. 

March, 1860. 

7 



98 IDYLS OF HOME 



Heart-calls por Home. 

Removed to another prison, 
In frowning mountain walls, 

I sit alone at my window 

Hushing my heart's low calls — 
Its calls fov friends and Jiome ! 

And I watch with intense longing 
The free wild birds, that fly 

Across the hills rejoicingly 
Against the sunny sky — 
Swiftly returning home ! 

It suits me not to be confined — 
My restless heart wants room; 

I think of the boundless prairies 
S})angled with flowers in bloom, 
That long ago was home ! 

I think of the fair, rich valley, 

The Mississippi shore, 
And the fields of many acres. 

Mine once, but mine no more ; 

I must not call it home ! 

But I must be strong and hopeful. 
Looking for brighter days — 

Clouds must not shut out the shining 
Of Hope's warm, healthful rays ; 
I must bring glad thoughts home ! 

Despair must not cliill my spirit, 
Aifliction nnist not crush, 



IDYLS OF HOME. 99 

But faith all my doubts must scatter, 
And my rejoicings liush ; 
Then I may hope for home I 

Bellefonte, Sept., 18G0. 



GOOD-BY. 



GooD-BY ! we spoke it again and again, 

As we heard the warning shriek of the train, 

And knew that we neared the station ; 
And my thoughts in trains went hurrymg back 
Through the past, along a familiar track. 

Towards home, on the old plantation. 

I could see it then, with memory's eye. 

As it looked when we said our first good-by — 

Lingering to make preparation — 
To gather more strength — to struggle with tears- 
To summon up corn-age — to fight with fears — 

To endure the separation. 

But the pitiless train rushed faster on, 

The last precious moment was almost gone — 

"Good-by! good-by! oh; my mother!" 
My head on her breast was heavily laid — 
My heart beat 'gainst hers as it inly prayed — 

Each hand was clasped by a brother. 

Alas ! on our ears fell that warning shriek, 
And ere we another farewell could speak, 

The cars were again in motion, 
And I was standing with blinded eyes. 
Pursuing the train with unheard good-bys, 

Left there, with grief for my portion. 



100 IDYLS OF HOME. 

On ! on ! it sped, with a maniac scream, 

And ere I could shake off that night-mare dream 

It had reached another station. 
Then I awoke to a sense of my pain, 
But the cloud that shed its burden of rain 

Passed by, at the separation. 

Bloomsburg, April, 1861. 



Foe Ella's " Kose-bud" Album. 

You ask a flower from my cold hand 
For the wreath your friends are twining. 

But 1 left my flowers in that sweet land 
For which I am ever pining. 

Shall I fly, young friend, across the States, 
And the mountains that intervene, 

And light at the old plantation gates, 
And gather fresh buds from the green ? 

Shall I bring the spotted lilies back, 

From the nooks where they are growing' 

Or shall I seek, on a wilder track, 
Where the Mississippi's flowing; — 

For the feathery boughs of cedar bright, 
The clifi*s and the blufis adorning, 

That shine the same in the winter's light 
As upon a summer's morning ? 

Or, shall I up to the liomestead go. 
The crimson trumpets to gather? 



IDYLS OF HOME. 101 

Or wait for the fonr-o'clocks to blow — 
Or bear off my prince's feather ? 

But no! I may never bring them here, 

And all I can offer, Ella, 
Is a picture of what once was dear, 

In a frame of weeping willow. 

Bloomsburg, Pa., 1861. 



Keeping House. 

Four rooms we live in — Ilal and I; 
They are not wide, they are not high. 

Yet they are all we ask ; 
From dawn till in the afternoon, 
Humming a little made-up tune, 

I go about my task. 

It is not like the dear old place, 
And yet resemblance I can trace. 

Enough to call it home. 
Some slender little boughs of peach 
Over the lowered sash do reach, 

Into my sitting-room. 

There is no spacious lawn about, 
But the glad children can play out 

Upon a grassy patch. 
And each one take's her little chair. 
To sit out in the sun-warmed air, 

While, 



102 IDYLS OF HOME. 

With my frail hands, that until this 
Felt nothing rougher than a kiss, 

Our little meals I get ; 
Counting four plates with knife and fork, 
Taking my self-taught way to work, 

Till every thing is set. 

And in the evening, Hal and I, 
Under the hlue star spangled sky, 

Sometimes together walk, 
AVhile children play about our feet, 
As children do, with laughter sweet. 

And pretty, idle talk. 

Our path has been a shaded one, 
But now Ave come out in the sun. 

We know not for how long. 
We know the shadows near us lurk, 
But we will love and hope and work, 

And that will make us strong. 

WlLLIAMSPOltT, 18(31 . 



To MY ABSENT MOTHEE. 

'Tis morning, but the wintry sun 

Looks through a veil of sombre gray. 
And the dull landscape truly wears 

The robe of a December day. 
The garden lies a cheerless waste — 

The trembling nrms of leafless trees 
Stretch forth, with gestures strangely \vild. 

In the unfeeling northern breeze ; 



IDYLS OF HOME. 103 

And with a homesick sigh, I turn 

From contemplating such a scene, 
And wish for skies serenely blue, 

And verdure of perpetual green. 
Then, too, in Memory's picture-halls 

I view a scene, beloved the best — 
The dear old place, home, home, sweet home. 

In that bright land, the far Southwest. 

The old plantation acres broad. 

The garden and the sunny plain, 
The orchard of five thousand trees. 

The soil, green-carpeted with grain — 
And in the foreground, the old house, 

With vines upon its dark walls trailed — 
All, all has Memory's pencil sketched, 

And all has Memory's hand unveiled. 

So life-like is the pictured scene, 

So natural does all appear, 
That even old familiar sounds 

Deceiving Fancy makes me hear. 
I listen to the horses' tread, 

Turned homeward at the even-tide. 
Led by the dappled bay, the " Prince," 

Who scarce can touch the earth for pride. 

'* Black Eose," with high, defiant head, 

Swift as a fearless, free wild bird. 
Disputes with him the right to lead 

The spirited and noble herd. 
And peerless " Harry of the West" 

With graceful "Julie" hies away. 
While "Jennie" and Canadian "Lou" 

Pace on with playful "Fannie Gay." 



104 IDYLS OF HOME. 

"• Grace Darling," without fault of form, 

Queen of the herd by beauty's right, 
With royal dignity and ease 

Amid her suite appears in sight ; 
And the old dowagers advance 

With the young princess, ''Pattie Pace," 
Escorted by the wild mustang, 

Impatient for the prairie race. 

The faithful dogs around me group, — 

The veteran hero, " Watch," I see, 
And good "Fidelia," noble "Dred," 

With boisterous joy climb on my knee. 
Then lordly " Plato," Clinton's pet 

(For his sake more than doubly dear). 
And fierce-eyed " Fury," savage brute. 

Stand guard their girlish mistress near. 

But 1 awake : my inward gaze 

Comes back to this December day — 
Comes back to the brown garden waste. 

To shivering trees and clouds of gray. 
And then, remembrances of sin 

With thorny sharpness wound my heart. 
And conscience faithfully reveals 

Why, homeless, we must dwell apart. 

Ambition then possessed my soul, 

And rudely banished sweet content ; 
And my unthankful heart refused 

Acceptance of the gifts God sent. 
But now, since they have taken flight, 

How rich! how beautiful they seem! 
And lost reality becomes 

My spirit's sweetest earthly dream. 



IDYLS OF HOME. 105 

I now recall tlie wild desires 

That poisoned then life's well-spring pure, 
And feel that these sad homeless years 

Have been the exile's bitter cure. 
'Twere just that haughty human pride 

Humiliating woes should meet, — 
That rugged paths in lands unknown 

Should weary such impatient feet. 

Perhaps when I am fully tried, 

'Twill cease to be my fate to roam ; 
Then, mother, pray that we may meet 

Together in a sweet, sweet home. 
Keep for each wandering one a place 

In heart, and hearth, and social board, 
And hope, dear mother, that we all 

To home and you may be restored. 

WiLUAMSPORT, Pa., Dec. 21st, 1861. 



To Henky. 

These hills are very beautiful, 

And fair and far the view ; 
But, think me not undutiful — 

I see it not with you, dear friend, 

I see it not with you. 

I know 'twould be a lovely home. 
If but the heart were there; 

But ah ! a prison or the tomb 

For mo would be as fair, dear friend. 
As pleasant and as fair. 



106 IDYLS OF HOME. 

Nothing can make my pining heart 
In this cold land seek rest — 

Body and sonl must dwell apart, 
And I must live unblest, 



My soul is not a mountain bird, 
It loves the sweet Southwest, 

And sings but in the air that stirred 
Around its prairie nest, sweet friend, 
Its grass-bound prairie nest. 

It calls no other land its home ; 

The prairie and the bluff — 
There, there alone its wings have room — 

To dwell there is enough, dear friend, 

Joy, happiness enough. 

Wjlliamsport, Jan., 1SG2. 



YlNELAND. 

Our beautiful adopted land 

Slept in its sunshine long ; 
But now it wakes ! and ocean's strand 

Echoes its morning song ! 
A twelvemonth since, the slumber broke- 

The voice of enterprise 
This sunny land of vines awoke, 

Bidding its fruits arise. 

Then all these unsought acres lay 

Wild as a hunting-ground, 
East from the billows of tlie Bay, 



IDYLS OF HOME. lOt 

Now^ as by magic, eveiy spot 

Flings off its wild wood dress, 
And cottages the fair fields dot 

In simple loveliness. 

The cheery langh of childhood rings 

The avenues along, 
And many an older voice here sings 

A ^ope-inspired song. 
Untrammelled by all old-place ties 

Save those we love to keep, 
"We only sow the seed we prize ; 

And as we sow we'll reap. 

Brothers and sisters we become, 

In touching Vineland sod, 
Inmates of one expansive home, 

Children of one true God. 
The very name of Vineland charms 

The weary ones elsewhere — 
The beauty of its meaning warms 

Desires to breathe its air. 

Even from England's dewy isle, 

Victoria's garden land, 
They traverse many an ocean-mile 

To take us by the hand. 
And from the birth-place of romance, 

The land of song and wine. 
They come! they come! yes, even France 

Plants here the fruitful vine ! 

And calm Pacific's waters, too, 

Bring back the hearts that wait 
To bound upon its billows blue, 



108 IDYLS OF HOME. 

Home, from the Golden State ; 
Home, to a new home loved the best — 

A spot on Vineland soil, 
"Where love prompts labor, and we rest 

At health-begetting toil. 

The land of fruit! the land of spring! 

Land 'neath a favored sky, 
Land, where the strange bird's weary Aving 

May fold, no more to fly. 
Land of adoption, swift we come ! 

Fair clime of vines and flowers ! 
Clime that afiibrds the heart a home — 

A sunny clime now outs ! 

January, 1863. 



Invitation to Yineland. 

Come to Vineland ! come to Yineland ! 

From the city's stifled air, 
From the snowy northern mountains, 

From the old farms worn and bare; 
Come away from cold New England, 

Come, too, from the far ITorthwest, 
Where alike the chains of winter 

Bind in slavery Nature's breast. 

Come and meet us! not as strangers. 
But with Friendship's clasping hand, 

And in time we'll reap together 
Golden harvests from the land. 

Come, and claim the idle acres 
That wild flowers now intwine. 



IDYLS OF HOME. 109 

And create a hundred Edens 

Eicli with fruits of tree and vine. 

Come and join us ! Here together 
From the different States we meet — 

Some allured by fresh sea-breezes 
From the dusty city street ; 

Others, drawn by hope of dwelling- 
Tinder their own vine and tree, 

Where no foe can dare molest them, 
Where they may be fearless — free ! 

Some hail from ITew England homesteads, 

Some from summer Illinois, 
Some from fair Missouri's border, 

Where guerilla bands annoy ; 
Some from far-off Minnesota, 

Some from old 'Sylvania's vales, 
But still from the dear old JJnioii 

Every glad new-comer hails ! 

Come, and join us, then, in Vineland ! 

Hasten while there yet is room ; 
Come, with ready hands to help us. 

Make our sweet wild Eden bloom. 
Bring but Jiope^ and faith, and courage, 

Health is waiting for you here. 
Come, and join us, then, in Vineland ! 

Come, partake of Vineland cheer 1 

Vineland, N. J. 



110 IDYLS OF HOME 



Keply to the "Invitation to Vineland." 

[Paraphrase of a letter received from a relative, in ackuowledu 
mentof the receipt of a Vineland Kural, containing that poem.] 

''Come to Vineland!" yes, I will! 

Though affection binds me here, 
And strong ties unsevered still 

Hold me back from " Vinelan.d cheer;" 
Yet I'll leave my place of birth— 

Scene of vanished boyhood days, 
Where I've had my youthful mirth 

In so many different ways. 

I will leave the rippling run 

With its foot-worn bridge of plank, 
Where the fish dart in the sun 

From beneath the shelving bank ; 
I will leave the "lower spring," 

Best for me that ever Howed ; 
How its falling waters sing, 

CJurgling low a-near the road ! 

I will leave the old ash-tree. 

Dear for ties that memory weaves. 
For I first stood there to see 

Harvest-hands bind up the sheaves; 
I will leave the flowery yard, 

Where the roses blossom red ; 
And the walks, where stand on guard 

Shrubs about each blooming bed. 

I will leave the orchard old. 

With its fruits, delicious, rich — 



IDYLS OF HOME. Ill 

Quinces, striped with green and gold, 
Atid tlie pink, sun-painted peach ; 

"Major apples," red and rare. 

For our soldier grandsire named — 

"Father's Tree," whose fruit so fair 
Father's hand in autumn chiimed. 

And I'll leave the church so dear. 

Where my Christhin vows were made, 
With the silent graveyard near, 

Where my sainted friends are laid. 
Living friends I leave as well, 

Friends, who all have kindness sliown — 
Kindred, who by actions tell 

Love, that words would leave unknown. 

Yes, I'll leave the spot so dear, 

Once a guarded fortress site. 
Where, with patriot-soldiers near, 

First my father saw the light ; 
Leave the memory-hallowed ground. 

Leave each venerated tree, 
Leave the fair fields mountain-hound — 

Leave the all that's left to me ! 

Leave it for a promised boon 

That is counted more than wealth — 
Leave it for one gift alone. 

For the blessed gift of health ! 
This inheritance, though rich. 

Has not lengthened life to give, 
And its cold wind-voices teach — 

" Go elsewhere if you would live." 



112 IDYLS OF HOME. 

Thus I leave it all, to go — 

Go where health is promised free ; 
Where the fresh sea-breezes blow, 

Causing dark disease to flee. 
Leave it ! leave it ! yes, I come. 

To the land of gentle spring — 
Vineland is henceforth my home — 

" Vineland cheer" I soon shall sing. 

Chillisquaque, NorthumberLand Co., Pa. 



Home of my Childhood. 

Air — " Joys of my Childhood." 

Home of my childhood, 

Lost now forever. 
Lying afar in the vale of the West — 

Spot in the wildwood, 

By the broad river — 
Land that I pine for, and home I love best. 
Dear is the house that was built for my mother. 
Holy the grave of my innocent brother, 
Sacred the haunts where 1 spent, with another, 
Days when my heart was with happiness blest ! 

Home of my childhood, 

Why did fate sever 
Me from the place where my soul had found rest ? 

Prairie and wildwood. 

Bluff and blue river. 
Land that I pine for, and home I love best ! 



Home of my childhood, 
I have been roving, 



IDYLS OF HOME. 113 

Hoving afar from my own Illinois ; 

But though removing, 

Still am I loving 
Scenes that no after delight can destroy. 
Morning that smiles on this ocean-bound prairie, 
Birds whose gay revels vie courts of a fairy, 
Breath of old ocean, life-giving and airy, 
Take not the place of my childhood's lost joy. 

Home of my childhood. 

Why am I roving 
Further and further from thee, Illinois ? 

Why am I mo\dng, 

Lone and unloving, 
'Mid scenes that give hack not my childhood's joy ? 

ViNELAND, N. J., Oct., 1862. 

8 



EPISODES. 



The Peesian Maiden and hek Lute. 

[A wind, called the Samoor, so softens the strings of lutes, that 
they can never be tuned while it \asts.— Stephens^ Persia.] 

A MAIDEN sat at her lute, alone, 

Her fingers o'er it straying, 
But it breathed not music's faintest tone, 

To tell what she was playing. 

Soft winds were wandering over the chords 
With scarce a sound of sighing, 

While on the maiden's lips hung words 
Like tones of zephyrs dying. 

It was the wind that over that land 

Like a dumb spirit stealing, 
Softens the lute strings beneath the hand 

Skilled in the songs of feeling. 

So long had the young girl's lute been stilled, 

Her heart had lost its gladness. 
And the fountain of her thoughts was filled 

With troubled waves of sadness. 



EPISODES. 115 

Then the maiden sang to the hushed hite 

Beneath her fair hand lying, 
In tones like the breathing of a flute 

Away ill the distance dying. 

" Sweet lute, I've waited long 
Eor one sweet old-time song 

From thy dumb strings ; 
And still the Samoor's breath 
Distils a sleep, like death, 

From its wide wings. 

" Dear lute, I wait all day. 
Though voices call away, 

Yet thou art still ; 
My fingers woo one note 
On Persia's air to float. 

At my own will. 

" Loved lute, wait I in vain 
To hear sweet sounds again 

From thy frail chords ? 
If, while o'er thee I bend. 
Thy voice and mine could blend, 

'T would joy afford ! 

" Dear lute, I'll wait and pray, 
That soon may pass away 

The soft Samoor ; 
Then, then, I know thou'lt wake, 
And this sad silence break 

With song, once more." 

Vine Lodge, 111. 



116 EPISODES. 



The Blind Italian Giel. 

She stood alone, with beauty all around 

Her, and above. Blue as the nndnnmed eyes 

Of angels were the radiant skies, and all 

The breathing air was golden with those smiles 

Of rich, etherial sunlight, that only 

Beam upon Italia's favored clime. On 

Old gray walls they fell, and gave their brightness 

To the glossy leaves and clasping tendrils 

Of the vine, that, like the arms of love, had 

Clung for ages to the fallen fanes (long 

Left to ruin and decay), as though they 

Strove to hide from stranger-eyes the gloom, 

The damp, the ever-deepening stains of time. 

But through the emerald leaves, the spirit of 

The sunlight, golden-winged, would float into 

The dark recesses everywhere, and fill 

Them with pale gleams of glory, such as light 

The death-touched brow of genius, when the lamp 

"Within is sinking low, and dying out. 

Not more unshadowed could they rest upon 

The laughing streams, the lovely southern flowers, 

And groves of breeze-stirred myrtle-trees — save that 

There was a stain of sorrow, such as fills 

A gorgeous palace, when the hearts that throb 

Within it, and the eyes that look upon 

The splendor there, are full of tearful fight. 

And thus beneath a temple's shade the poor 

Blind maiden stood. A gentle friend, wlio led 

Iler there, to feel the loveliness she could 

Not see, had left her side, to gather fair 

Fresh flowers, to hold communion with the blind 



EPISODES. 117 

Girl's music-breathing heart. The grateful breeze 
Swept by, and she could feel its spirit-fingers 
Toying with the rich black tresses of her 
Hair, and touching, light and tenderly, her 
Forehead, pure and pale. And there was something 
In that touch, and in the wind's low voice, that 
Woke upon the harp of her young heart a 
Plaintive song. And while the beautiful strange 
Light of inspiration came into the dark 
Depths of her sightless eyes, and tinged her cheek 
With life's red tide, the wealth of feeling, deep 
And true, burst from her lips in song. 

"Italy! dear Italy! 

My own bright land ! 
Beneath thy skies so deeply blue, 

Lonely and blind I stand. 
TVith yearnings full of deepest pain 

My heart is thrilled ; 
And with the tears from its deep fount 

My sightless eyes are filled. 

"Italy! fair Italy! 

Thy fragrant air 
Comes stealing over my young brow. 

And playing with my hair. 
But oh ! the flowers, whose fragrance sweet 

Comes on thy wing — 
Oh, can I never gaze on them, 

And know of what I sing ? 

"Italy! bright Italy! 
The stranger's eye 
Has looked upon thy sunny streams 



118 EPISODES. 

That float in mnsic bj ; — 
A sweet stream murmurs at my feet, 

But I am blind ; 
And e'en the footpath in its brink, 

Alone, I cannot find. 

"Italy! s^Yeet Italy! 

I love thee well ! 
And I have wept in anguish wild 

Because of this black spell 
That veils my sight, and tills my heart 

With so much gloom, 
Making it in this sunlit land 

A dark, a rayless tomb. 

"Italy! loved Italy! 

The hour of death 
Will ere long o'er my young life steal, 

And take away my breath ; 
But thy blest light can never pale 

To my dim eye — 
Oh ! would that I could have my sight 

One hour, before I die ! 

"Italy! blest Italy! 

I then could lie 
Upon the couch of pain and death 

Without a tear or sigh. 
My heart would break with its great joy 

To look on thee, 
And take bright pictures in its depths 

Of temple, grove, and tree. 

"Italy! dear Italy! 
My own bright land ! 



EPISODES. 119 

Thy child is blind ; but if in heaven 

Among the saved I stand, 
I'll look in love upon each spot 

I long to see, 
And with the sunbeams send my smile 

To those most dear to me." 

Frditland, 1854. 



Madelike. 

Madeline sat, one autumn day, 
Eecalling scenes long passed away. 

Low bowed her head, in earnest thought 
Of all the changes time had wrought. 

September sunshine softly lay 
Asleep upon her robe of gray ; 

And through the windows of her soul 
A fragment of its brightness stole. 

Guiding her, with its glory, back 
To her lost childhood's sunny track. 

The homestead old first rose to view. 
With every tree that round it grew : 

She saw the creek with banks so green ; 
She saw the willow-shaded stream ; 

And then the very bridge of plank, 

Where one might spring from bank to bank. 



120 EPISODES. 

Again, beneath the hill-side steep, 
Where shadows all the summer sleep, 

She saw the same small rough bark trough, 
And tiny cascade tumbling off. 

The house itself, the gray-limed walls — 
The quaint old rooms — the wide old halls — 

The hearthstone broad, and clean, and red, 
"Where laughing fire-flames upward fled, 

When the October frosts came down — 
The time of gathering nuts so brown. 

Again appeared her grandsire's face, 
Smiling in its accustomed place ; 

There stood the same old easy-chair, 
And open Bible lying there. 

All, all appeared so real then. 

She dreamed she was a child again. 

And thus it passed — the shifting ray 
Shone on the Shenandoah gay. 

Picturing a south-land summer-time 
In the Virginian valley's clime. 

And next glowed in the yellow light 
A hill-side cottage neat and white. 

On one side rose the dark-green trees, 
Trembling in the unquiet breeze ; 



EPISODES. 121 

And on the other stretched a plain, 
Dotted with sheaves of yellow grain. 

Again it changed. The light went on 
To gild another home, long gone. 

'Twas on a swell of earth's fair breast, 
A lovely prairie of the West ; 

She saw herself a happy child, 
A free bird in that Eden wild. 

And now upon the last loved spot — 
The longest loved — the ne'er forgot — 

Madeline looks in mute despair. 
Only sighing, "Lost! and so fair!" 

The fruit-trees wave, the garden lies 
Under the Illinoisian skies ; 

The rank grass tangles on the slope, 
The very air sighs, "Vain is hope." 

Forsaken home ! o'ergrown with weeds — 
Trampled by herds of restless steeds — 

Kuined and desolate it lies — 
Saddest of scenes to Madeline's eyes. 

Still lower bowed her head, in thought 
Of the dark changes time had wrought. 

The autumn sunshine lingered yet 
On robe of gray, on hair of jet; 



122 EPISODES. 

Bat in her eyes stood stormy rain, 
Shutting out light from her heart's pain. 

"Lost! lost!" she wailed, " all torn away, 
There's now no spot where I may stay ; 

"ISTo place of rest, no home on earth, 
No family altar, no warm hearth. 

" This changeful light will soon be gone, 
The moonless night is coming on, 

" And while my fair young children sleep, 
And darkness hides me, I can weep. 

" Ah ! little thought I, when a bride. 
How dark the world, how drear, how wide !' 

Pennsyltania Hotel, Bellefonte, Sept., 1860. 



HONOEA. 

HoisroRA at her window stood 



The fragrance-freighted morning air 
Coquetted with her shining hair. 

While a soft ray of early light 
Shone on a marriage circlet bright, 

That gemmed the fair hand lying still 
Upon the wide, low window-sill. 



EPISODES. 123 

She stood half dreaming, till by chance 
The flashing jewel won a glance. 

She smiled ; it was a smile of pride — 
Perchance with tenderer thoughts allied ; 

For new emotions seemed to hold 
Her changing gaze upon the gold. 

The proud, bright smile forsook her face — 
A look of thought stole in its place. 

Eemembrances of other years. 
Sweet days of April smiles and tears, 

Again were quickened into life 
Within the bosom of the wife. 

Nineteen fair summers she had seen. 
With no chill winter months between ; 

For winter's chains may bind the earth. 
While summer reigns in heart and hearth. 

Thus fair, Honora's youth had been — 
Thus passed her maidenhood serene : 

E'en the last change of her spring life — 
The mystic change that made her wife — 

Left all things outwardly the same, 
In nothing altered, save in name. 

She lingered in her childhood's home — 
She stood within her bridal-room — 



124 EPISODES. 

The same where she had, years agone, 
Slept sweet from even-tide till dawn, 

With a child-friend who loved her then 
As never friend can love again. 

Such pictures hung before her mind — 
To outward scenes her eye grew blind ; 

Between her gaze and that spring scene 
Arose the face of Madeline. 

Honora ! looked she in your eyes 
In mute despair, in sad surprise ? 

Or questioned she your calm proud heart 
Of aught that turned your paths apart? 

Honora ! if no other thorn 

Hides in your rose leaves this May morn. 

Wounds not that one your woman's breast? 
Disturbs it not your memory's rest ? 

Perchance you dream upon that bed 
How you have lain your lovely head, 

On the same pillow, sweetly clean, 
Beside the once loved Madeline. 

How many times your tresses brown, 
Upon those white-draped drifts of down, 

Have curled around her raven braids, 
Brighter by contrast with their shades ? 



EPISODES. 125 

Honora ! be-autiful young bride, 

May love henceforth your actions guide ; 

And may your heart possess the key 
Henceforth to unlock its mystery. 

Then when it answers back the tone 
Of him who won you for his own, 

In kindness turn to Madeline — 
Oh ! call her love a pardoned sin ! 



EosA Bkamble. 

In the shadow of the oak-trees, 
Just beside the leaning wall, 

Stood alone young Rosa Bramble, 
Looking steadfast towards the " Hall." 

On the still air of the evening 
Voices chimed like silver bells, 

And the rustling silks made music 
Like the sound in ocean shells. 

Down the garden walk they fluttered, 

Gayly talking all the while, 
Till the students and the maidens 

Stood within the forest aisle. 

from the oak-shade still looked Rosa 
At the gay and happy band — 

Stealing from her eyes the tear-drops 
With her slender little hand. 



126 EPISODES. 

"No one misses me," slie murmm-ed; 

" In the cottage all is still, 
And the voices in the woodland 

Tempted me adown the hill. 

"I must know if sweet May Arden 
Walks this evening in the grove, 

For I know her childish heauty 
Wins the wealth of praise and love. 

" Yes, I see her, she is walking 
With the proud step of a queen ; 

Daintily her slipper presses 
Mossy banks of freshest green. 

'' Now her white dress is embroidered 
With the sun's last gift of gold! 

And the pencilled shade of leaflets 
Falls upon each snowy fold ; 

"While upon the lace-edged bosom 
Light is breaking into gems, 

And they cluster, thick and golden, 
Kound the fairy little hems. 

"Then her hair, like rich brown satin, 
Coiled up in its silken net, 

Wears a circlet of sun-jewels, 
Kichest of the golden set. 

'• Bright May Arden ! she forgets me, 
In her beauty, in her pride ! 

Rosa Bramble's but a shadow 
Walking at May Arden's side. 



EPISODES. 127 

'' Strange it is, she loved me ever, 

I, so drooping and so frail — 
She so faultless in her beauty, 

Never languid, never pale. 

*'I have hair like blackest midnight — 

No jems flash amid the jet — 
Hers is browner than ripe chestnuts 

When the dew is on them yet. 

" And at Tangle Tarn, the flowers 
Than my face are not more white ; 

But a sun-kissed peach just gathered 
Blooms like May's cheek, fresh and bright. 

" Then her robe is light and graceful, 
Eose-hued ribbons float around — 

But my dress is plainer, darker. 
Than this spot of shaded ground. 

" Oh, May Arden! 'tis not envy 
Stirs such thoughts in Rosa's heart ; 

She but yearns to taste your pleasure. 
She but sighs to have a part. 

" Though the lot of Eosa Bramble 

Is a thorny one and wild, 
She must feel athirst for beauty. 

Looking on a sun-crowned child." 



" Eosa Bramble, I have won you, 
You are now Paul Arden's bride ! 

Does your heart repent so quickly? 
Do you wish me from your side ?" 



128 EPISODES. 

Thus Paul Arden spoke to Eosa, 
Entering in the chamber-door, 

Stepping on the bars of silver 
Cast by moonbeams on the floor. 

'' My poor heart is weak and weary," 
Eosa Bramble sadly sighed ; 

"Love has led me to the altai, 
Still I'm not a willing bride. 

" Sweet May Arden, in our childhood, 

Was to me a sister dear : 
To the memory of those hours 

Falls the tribute of a tear. 

"Proud May Arden, now a stranger — 
Heir to all her mother's pride — 

Now that we in truth are sisters. 
Has Eose Ardeii'ii claim denied." 



Mallie. 



The cabin in the orchard stood — 
The orchard edged the wilder wood — 

The spring was 'ncath the hill ; 
The rows of corn, the yellow grain. 
Waved on a wide and suimy plain, 

Divided by a rill. 

Among the leafy apple limbs 

Young birds were taught their earliest hymns, 

Beside the cabin door ; 
And sunbeams in the mornino- still 



EPISODES. 129 

Crept ill the smooth- worn oaken sill, 
And played about the floor. 

There Mallie lived. The grassy road, 
That every day her small feet trod 

Schoolward with eager haste, 
"Was all she saw (outside her books). 
Beside the cabin, trees, and brooks, 

And forest-paths she traced. 

Free as the light and air itself 
Roved Mallie, dark-browed little elf. 

When books were laid aside ; 
Now whistling some impromptu tune, 
iSTow stopping some wild twig to prune. 

Hands bare and hat untied. 

The sun had leave to kiss her face, 
And only Nature taught her grace. 

Through all her childish years. 
Thus Mallie into girlhood grew, 
Nor yet Life's first hard lesson knew. 

That's always learned with tears. 

And thus came on the autumn days. 
With Indian summer's golden haze. 

In Mallie's fourteenth year ; 
And with unconscious heart she passed 
The hours she dreamed not were the last 

She would a child appear. 

Then, one day, up the wooded hill. 
And quick across the oaken sill. 
With proud step passed a lad ; 
And ^Mallie's father he addressed, 



130 EPISODES. 

And all his poverty confessed, 

And all the liope he had. 
The time for school had just returned, 
And in his heart ambition burned 

That would be satisfied ; 
Morning and eve he'd work for board, 
And still have hours Avherein to hoard 

The wealth that was his pride. 

And so, when Mallie's small feet trod 
Schoolward the grass-grown country road, 

Ralph walked it at her side. 
Her dinner-basket quick was swung 
Where his own books and satchel hung, 

Ere Mallie's hat was tied. 

And so it came to be at last. 

Ere Mallie's fourteenth year had passed. 

That with her pretty look. 
While she her daily lessons learned, 
Ambition from the boy w^as turned. 

And Mallie was his book. 

Then the long summer days came back, 
I-]ut Ralph could turn not from the track 

That Mallie made so sweet; 
And so he stayed the corn to plant, 
And meanwhile learned to find each haunt 

Where wandered Mallie's feet. 

And later, when the mellow peach 
Hung temptingly within the reach, 

Ralph pared them to be dried. 
And spread upon the smooth clean boards 



EPISODES. 131 

The quartered fruit for winter hoards, 
With Mallie at his side. 

One of his various pleasant " chores" 
Was moving, on the closet-doors 

The buttons higher up ; 
And driving in the cabin wall 
New pegs for Mallie's hat and shawl, 

For drinking gourd and cup. 

For when the cabin logs were laid, 
And pegs and buttons newly made, 

The farmer's only pet 
On tip-toe did beside him stand 
Upreaching for him her right hand, 

To have the buttons set 

Just low enough, that she herself 
Might carry from the white pine shelf 

The things prepared for tea — 
Oft fluttering in her mother's road 
With many a dainty little load — 

As busy as a bee. 

But buttons, nails, and latches, all 
Seemed some way, each succeeding fall. 

As if they had crept doicii 
So low (she never could see how), 
Only they were beneath her now — 

It must be she had grown. 

No more on tip-toe then she stood, 
And certain circles on the wood 

Of every inside door 
Showed where the buttons had been placed, 



132 EPISODES. 

Only to be still higher chased 
Up from the cabin floor. 

She showed them all to Ralph one day, 
And in her pretty artless way 

Talked about growing up ; 
And with a pleased look, and a gush 
Of laughing words that made her blush, 

Brouglit out her small tin cup ; 

And opening wide the closet door, 
Knelt down upon the sanded floor 

To hang it in his place — 
Thus her boy-lover to convince 
That she'd been busy ever since 

With old Time keeping pace. 

Then Ralph, before she thought to ask, 
Went straightway to perform the task ; 

And had the maiden stand. 
Watching his happy sunburnt face, 
While reaching up to each new place 

That small, ambitious hand. 

Swift flew the hours then o'er the lad — 
This now was all the joy he had, 

To study her sweet look ; 
Now every other page was dull — 
But this, with interest how full ! 

Oh ! most bewitching book ! 

lie conned enough of sober prose 

To learn this book for him might close : 

Still eagerly he read. 
And whispered to his heart, at times, 



EPISODES. 133 

That memory should keep its rhymes 
When present joys had fled. 

Those joys did flee! the autmnn days 
With Indian summer's golden haze 

Brought Mallie's sixteenth year. 
Ah ! conscious heart ! the two years past 
She knew must end Ralph's dream at last, 

His dream of love so dear. 

So Mallie crossed the cabin sill, 

And trod the green path down the hill, 

And went away to school. 
Her father, with a father's pride, 
No good to Mallie e'er denied. 

And love was all his rule. 

And when the harvest all was sold. 
The yellow wheat exchanged for gold, 

Sweet Mallie took her part, 
And left the school house by the brook, 
And took from Ralph his favorite book, 

Wherein he pressed his heart. 

Slow dragged the hours then o'er the lad ; 
And only this frail hope he had, 

That when she came again 
He'd tell her of his lonely heart — 
He'd say they could not dwell apart, 

For that were one long pain. 

And then he cherished this resolve, 
And still would every day revolve 

The question in his mind. 
All night he dreamed that she said yes — 



134 EPISODES. 

All day he feared she'd like him less, 
And answer him unkind. 

Then back she came one autumn eve 
To snatch from hooks a short reprieve, 

And make the old folks glad ; 
But though she smiled when Ealph was by, 
She seemed, the while, so coldly shy. 

It sore perplexed the lad. 

Then on a golden afternoon. 

When Mallie's heart seemed all in tune, 

To church she walked with Ralph ; 
But when they reached the wood-path lone. 
Gone was her gayety of tone, 

Nor seemed she like herself. 

She tied her hat, and drew the rim 
Low down, to hide her face from him. 

And in her Prayer-book read ; 
Or, in an absent-minded way, 
Said things half- earnest, half in play, 

Then wished they were unsaid. 

Ralph with an effort then began, 
"With his premeditated plan. 

As soon as she was still. 
His color wandered out and in. 
And shivered so his beardless chin. 

She thought it was a chill. 

They fell into a slower walk. 

And Ralph commenced his low-toned talk 

With saying she was sad ; 
And that if she could only stay, 



EPISODES. 135 

Something lie had a mind to say 
About a hope he had. 

She listened ; and he hurried on, 
To say that he was sick and lone, 

While she had been away ; 
And now, that something made him know — 
Indeed, his heart had told him so — 

That she had not been gay. 

A sigh stole up from Mallie's breast; 
Why so, she could not have confessed, 

Only she pitied Ealph ; 
She wished he had not spoken so, 
For she a separate way must go, 

A long way, ly herself. 

She told him this ; but he replied, 
In bolder tones, with manly pride. 

He could not let her go. 
"Oh! take my hand," he said, ''and come! 
I can make you a happy home. 

If you will not say no. 

" Through life it would be all my pride, 
If, Mallie, you were at my side^ 

To help you on the way ; 
And if those tender little feet 
Faltered along life's stony street, 

Mallie, I'd be your stay." 

Still Mallie gently answered "no," 
And sadly said she meant it so, 

And could not change her mind ; 
And yet she thought she ought to say. 



136 EPISODES. 

Before he went Ms lonely way, 
She meant it not unkind. 

The country church was then in sight, 
And from the wood-shade into light 

They came out side by side ; 
But both sides of the dusty street 
Bore impress of a pair of feet, 

And thus they did divide. 

Before the days grew bleak and chill, 
A new guest crossed the cabin sill. 

And sat by Mallie's side ; 
And Ralph said to his slighted heart, 
"Thou seest why we two have to part, 

Why my suit is denied." 

He turned again to books forgot, 
But cheerless seemed to him his lot. 

With Mallie lost, yet near. 
So one day passed he by the spring. 
And, near the unused grape-vine swing, 

Hid in the turf a tear. 

His books and satchel too he had, 
But not upon his arm, poor lad ! 

Did Mallie's basket hang; 
But in the woods, the careless birds 
The same old tunes, without the words, 

Together for him sang. 

It was the road they used to walk. 

The road where many a sweet-toned talk 

The maiden had with Ealph ; 
And in those walks it was, that he 



EPISODES. 137 

Had learned to think the small word " we" 
Meant Mallie and himself. 

Now slowly walked he all the waj, 
Hurting his heart with the delay, 

And adding to its weight ; 
Yet dreading much to reach the street 
Where turned aside the little feet, 

Before the church-yard gate. 

Smile, older hearts ! smile if you will, 
If age has made your thoughts lie still, 

And " love's young dream" is not. 
Time now, 'tis true, Ms heart has healed, 
And first love's fountain kindly sealed. 

But memory holds that spot. 

Mallie the stranger's hride became. 
And then ceased Ralph's familiar name 

To be a household word ; 
And if it ever chanced to slip 
From little Mallie's careless lip, 

Jt died away unheard. 

Wllliamsport, Pa., Sept., 1861. 



Anote of Looking-glass Peaikie. 

I HAVE an idle hour. Meanwhile, I'll look 
Over the pages of a sweet old book 

That never gets mislaid ; but all the time 
Lies open, at some simple-fashioned rhyme. 



138 EPISODES. 

Or quaint old storj, that perchance may seem 
To some no more than any passing dream — 

But tliat to me is actual, plain, and true — 
Old as a life-time, yet still freshly new. 

I need but look ; my tired hand lies still, 
And the time-scented leaves turn o'er at will. 

Here is a page, marked round with faded lines ; 
And there another, where a picture shines ; 

And many more bear dim, sad-looking stains, 
That are, themselves, a woixlless tale of pains ; 

While in between lies now and then a leaf 
Unburdened with a history of grief. 

But laden with all sweet and happy words, 
Gay, glad, harmonious as the song of birds. 

Then there are pieces in it from Time's loom, 
Woven to carpet Memory's shadowy room. 

Whose breadths are rich with every brilliant hue 
A rainbow or a sunset ever knew. 

All crossed with twilight gray, and midnight black. 
And gleams of silver from the moonlight's track. 

'lis some of that strange web I now unfold, 
With all its checkered yards and chain of gold. 

There's pictures quaintly 'broidered on it, too — 
Some of them prairie scenes 'neath skies of blue. 



EPISODES. 139 

Let a word-painting reproduce them here, 
And touch anew what memory limns so clear. 

H; H^ * * * 

A home-nest's mirrored on the " Looking-glass,"* 
Like a small ark on emerald waves of grass, 

That summer winds break into flowery foam. 
Creating a green sea, white-capped with bloom. 

In the cool shadows of a summer eve 
Annie sits on the stile, a dream to weave ; 

While from the Blue Mound, in the distance clear, 
The unmilked cattle lazily appear ; 

And liquid laughter, with the tune 

Of the clear bell, comes rippling after, soon ; 

And ere the dream is finished, come the stars, 
And the cows wait beside the pasture bars, 

And the blent voices of the sisters fair 
Like bird-songs freight the vocal evening air. 

Annie awakes then with a happy sigh, 

To drop the bars, and let the herd pass by ; 

Then fairy Emma rustic music makes 
With milky cascades falling into lakes ; 

And grave Janette, upon her milking-stool, 
Draws the white fluid out as if by rule ; 

While mirthful Sadie, Avith the dimpled face, 
Tempts little Dora to a frolic chase, 

* The name of a prairie in Illinois. 



140 EPISODES. 

Or leads her o'er the greensward in a dance, 
Beneath the mellow moonlight's tender glance. 

****** 
Thus came, thus passed, each year a happy June — 
Thus waved and waned full many a harvest-moon ; 

But the neat picture limned so plainly here 
Came but the once young Annie'a heart a-near.. 

***** 
Annie herself forsakes her favorite hook, 
To shape a graceful robe of white nansook ; 

And all the while her shining needle flies, 
A happy light smiles in her hazel eyes. 

At last 'tis finished, and with blushing face, 
Yet still with half-affected, easy grace. 

She makes her simple toilet, with the aid 
Of Emma, favorite sister, cole bridesmaid. 

And when the kine lowed next beside the bars, 
Annie dreamed bridal dreams beneath the stars ; 

And the sad sisters of the brown-eyed bride 
Walked in the prairie trail, all side by side. 

Wondering why they had never seen before 

The " Looking-glass" was but a barren moor. 
***** 

The short southwestern winter browned the ling. 
And made the prairie-birds forget to sing. 

But all the clianges, sad or sunny, fell 

When the wild Eden smiled, and all seemed well. 



EPISODES. 141 

So came a summer, smiling in deceit, 
When Emma's heart with loved tunes learned to 
beat. 

But unawares stole over her Death's cloud, 
And Annie^ dress was fitted for her shroud. 

Little recked Annie, when the gift she gave, 
It was to robe a young bride for the grave ; 

IsTor dreamed she yet of any other loss, 
Though ready was the burden and the cross. 

A smaller grave beneath the prairie sod 
Received the casket of a gift from God, 

That she had never, in her gladness, thought 
The gracious Giver would so soon have sought. 

Then she w^as orphaned, too, and 'tw^as her lot 
For four at once to mourn, who now were not. 

Scarce had the frightened smiles dared to come 

back, 
To seek about her lips their old-time track, 

"When they were chased again in grieved surprise, 
Scared by the breaking of still other ties. 

On California's shore a brother fell — 
And in her ear tolled a new baby's knell. 

Alas for Annie ! never dreamed she more. 
Save of the pearly gate and crystal floor 



142 EPISODES, 

That the bride- veil hnd shut out from her sight, 
Till, one hj one, went out each earthly light. 

Only the one friend she had chosen for guide. 
With the two sisters left, were by her side — 

The two who danced upon the prairie grass, 

Ere graves were mirrored in the ''Looking-glass;" 

And when they laid the tired dreamer down, 
Taking for memory, each, a ringlet brown. 

Each looked into the other living face. 
Detecting there disease's guileful trace — 

Questioning with fear, " Which shall be left 
To die alone, of kindred all bereft?" 



Janette. 



I DEE AM of an old tree, 
A crooked seedling peach, 
That stood untriniraed — 
Untrained, low-limbed — 
Whose fruit a child could reach ; 
Its cooling shade 
Just overlaid 
A rude old mossy seat, 
Hid from the cottage casement wide 
By rocks piled on the eastern side — 
It was her sad retreat — 
Janette, Janette 



EPISODES. lis 

There, mournful days went she, 
Each day with feebler tread, 
Long hours to sit — 
To muse — to knit — 
To wish that she were dead ; 
I see the place — 
I see her face, 
Just as it used to look, 
When, white and wild and wan, it peered 
Above the rocks, with gaze so wierd, 
As if by hope forsook ; 
Janette, Janette. 

That look still comes to me 
O'er mountain, lake, and land, 
Though years agone, 
Brain-clouded one, 
Christ took you by the hand. 
May he forgive 
All we who live 
Yet on the sunny earth, 
Keeping our talents without use-— 
Treating our soul-gifts with abuse, 
Regardless of their worth; 
Janette, Janette. 

Better for her than me, 
Poor feeble-minded one ! 

If I forget, 

Or lose regret 
For past unkindness done ; 

But if I weep, 

She, in her sleep, 
Can never hear nor heed , 



144 EPISODES. 

Only the Lord who called awaj 
The soul that trembled in that clay, 
Can pardon as I need ; 
Janette, Janette, 

Alas ! how could 1 see, 
Walking a path like mine, 
That she, untaught — 
By love unsought — 
Could need, or for it pine ? 
Ah ! once she said, 
With drooping head, 
Her heart liad dared to thrill ; 
But she was teaching it to keep 
Its lovely dream for aye asleep — 
A sleep, and lying still ; 
Jannette, Janette. 

I did not seek the key — 
I did not try the door — 
Else I had been 
Admitted in, 
To see her heart's whole store ; 
Then I had known. 
How from my own 
More favored spirit-shrine, 
I might have spared, oh, many a prize, 
Nor ever felt the sacrifice. 
This work undone was mine, 
Janette, Janette. 

Too late ! too late ! for me 
To do that duty now ; 
The will of God— 
The shroud — the sod — 



EPISODES. 145 



Have all decreed it so ; 
' I only may, 

Henceforth for aye, 
Do it for all her kind, 
Having an interest and a care, 
A hand, a heart, a hope, a prayer, 
For every half-lit mind ; 
Janette, Janette. 

Hawthornden, August, 1862. 



Inteelucation. 

Nellie, there's music in this clear ringing 
Accompaniment to your sweet singing— 

This ringing through the woods! 
The axe makes melody in my hands, 
As I cut away in the forest lands, 

Where sulky darkness broods. 

The green savannahs are lying in light, 

But we'll win them over, those sunbeams bright. 

Before to-morrow noon. 
And, Nellie, just where you are sitting now, 
Beneath the cool shade of the oaken bough. 

To-night shall beam the moon. 

These dim frescades will be beautiful then, 
When the light shall glimmer in glade and glen. 

And on the runnel blue ; 
When the pure-eyed stars on picket are out, 
And the ghostly shadows wander about, 

Like souls with sins to rue. 
10 



146 EPISODES. 

Look, N'ellie ! my tree ! it begins to lean, 
And the prettiest sim-dart ever seen 

Is being smuggled through, 
It steps like a fairy from bough to bough — 
A-coming ! a-coming, to kiss your brow — 

(I let it in for you.) 

See, Nellie ! my tree is constrained to bow ; 
The kingly oak learns humility now, 

Before so fair a queen. 
He's bending above you — he's stooping down- 
Slow and majestical, yet Avith a frown. 

And distant, haughty mien. 

Spring, I^Tellie, my darling ! now spring aside- 
'Tis bending, breaking, above you, my bride— 

Oh ! fly before it foils ! 
Alas ! her singing is suddenly hushed — 
My bride and my hope together are crushed 

Within the forest walls. 

I was gayly working to let light come, 
But interlucation brings darkness home — 

Brings darkness and no light. 
A sunbeam is resting on Nellie's head ; 
But why does it crown her, if she is dead ? 

Why shine in the midst of my night? 



Lyton's Lilian. 

Beautifui^ Lilian, 

Spirit aerial ! 
Azure-eyed dreamer, 

Being etherial ! 



EPISODES. 14*1 

A mortal, yet moulded 
Of heaven's material. 



A visible woman, 

Invisibly guarded — 
"With heart sweetly human 

But feelings unworded. 
Gracefully feminine, 

Poetic — ideal — 
Deliciously dreamy. 

Unworldly, unreal. 



I see the dark abbey, — 

The circle of sward — 
The gray Norman columns. 

Like soldiers on guard — 
The deep Gothic cistern — 

The creepers and ferns — 
The emerald willow 

That over all mourns — 
And in the green centre, 

With fair, folded arm, 
The child-woman Lilian's 

Poetical form. 

I see her reclining 

In death-chamber shade— 
I see her reviving 

In sunshiny glade ; 
I see her supported, 

Frail, delicate reed, 
By one, self-reliant. 

Of whom she had need. 



148 EPISODES. 

I see her, a phantom 

Of " silvery whiteness" — 
I see her, a shadow 

Of unearthly brightness ; 
A colorless "outline" — 

A sighing Eolian — 
A vaguely shaped figure, 

Lilian ! Lilian ! 

I see her spell-holden — 

Evil enchanted — 
I see her dream-tangled — 

I see her ghost-haunted. 
I see her soul-shadowed — 

I see her mind-clouded — 
Mystery — enveloped, 

Solemnly shrouded. 

I see her 'mid ruins 

Blown on like a blossom — 
No knowledge of danger 

Awake in her bosom ; 
No guile in her spirit — 

No thought in her keeping — 
Erring in innocence — 

Intellect sleeping. 

I go with the lover. 

The dreamer in quest, 
Down the glen, where, weary, 

She halted to rest. 
I find the lost ribbon — 

The knot from her breast — 
Amid the furze bushes, 

Adown the wild dell. 



EPISODES. 149 

Wiere waves of the streamlet 
Low murmuring fell. 

I go to the sea-shore — 
The drear, lonesome spot — 

The den of the charmer, 
Where anchored the yacht. 

1 speed to the cliff-side, 

The thorn-tree heueath — 
I rescue, with Allan, 

His Lilian from death. 

I watch in her illness — 

I woo back her health — 
I worship her sweetness, 

Forgetting her wealth. 

The day of her bridal — 

The hope of her heart — 
Become of my living, 

Material part. 
I too feel the slanderer's 

Sharp, poison-tipped dart, 
And tlirill like a victim 

Of venomous art. 

I suffer her sorrow — 

I chill with her fear ; 
The "Luminous Shadow" 

" Scin Lacca" is here! 

I bm'n with her fever — 
I sigh with her breath — 



150 EPISODES. 

1 lie in her chamber, 
Awaiting her death. 

And with her I waken 
To love and to life — 

Arouse from the dreaming, 
Come out of the strife. 

Then passes the "Shadow" 

Forever away — 
Heart to heart heating 

In life's real day — 
Mind with mind basking 

In intellect's ray — 
Soul with soul meeting 

Together to pray. 

All-Hallow Eve, 1862. 



The Unknown Gkave. 

The shadowy cliff, the mountain stream, 

The warm and cloudless skies, were bright and 

Beautiful with the last and sunniest 

Smiles of May. Luxuriant vines of 

Emerald hue, together twined their 

Slender arms, to clasp those stern cold cliffs 

In their embrace ; and lovingly they 

Nestled there, while the rich, dark verdure 

Of the trees drooped over them, as if 

To hide from them the sunlight's laughing 

Glance. Beneath them, through the silent vale, 

A silvery streamlet murmured on its 

"Wildwood course. Dream-like shadows flitted 



EPISODES. 151 

On its ever dimpling waves, chasing 

The sunny light away ; as pensive 

Thoughts within the soul will change the glance 

Of mirth to one of thought or sadness. 

Half hidden in the matted grass, that 

Fringed the banks of that sweet stream, fair, 

Dewy-eyed young violets drooped on 

Their slender stems. 'Twas here, where no loved 

Friend could come to weep -where only night's 

Cold tears, in darkness and in silence 

Fell — a little nameless sleeper lay 

Upon a cold clay couch, in Death's long 

Dreamless sleep. Perhaps ere it was laid 

To rest, a mother held the lifeless 

Form to her sad heart, and wet the cold 

White cheek with her warm, gushing tears. A 

Gentle sister may have knelt, sadly 

And tearfully, beside that lovely 

Mountain stream, to clasp but once again 

The little waxen fingers in her 

Own, while looking towards the fair blue sky, 

And breathing from the heart a fervent 

Prayer. 

But now 'tis left alone. No 
Mother comes to weep, at twilight's hushed 
And holy hour, beside the lowly 
Bed, — no sister's gentle step comes there — 
No hand strews on the sunken graves an 
Offering of fair flowers. 

St. Louis, Mo. 



152 A MISCELLANY 



A MISCELLANY. 



Makgaket Millee Davidson. 

Death, stern deatb, " marks all that's fair and lovely 
For its own," sweeping life's frail chords, and 
Blending its sweet music in " one death-like tone." 
Like a bright dream, that fades with morning's rosy 
Light, still leaving in the soul a sad, sad 
Tone of lingering sweetness — she faded from earth, 

ere 
The spoiler's breath had blighted her frail beauty, 
Or left one mark, save that it deepened the rose-tint 
On her fair cheek, and lighted in her full 
Dark eye unearthly tires. But the fairy 
Strains awakened on her matchless lyre, still 
Linger in hearts that echo oft a sweet response. 

Ere the impress of childish thought had faded 
From her pure young brow, her spirit revelled in 
Shadowy dreams of angels and seraphs, and 
Sweet-toned harps in the far- oif spirit-land. And 
When her dark eyes were upraised in thoughtful 

gaze, 
She would pierce the azure veil, and see among 
The white-robed spirits a sister's angel form. 



A MISCELLANY. 153 

And why so fearfully and strangely glorious 

To our earth-bound souls that thus they held sweet 

Converse ? Were not both angel-spirits, though one 

was 
Fettered with a form of clay? — lovely prison 
For a sjnrit-Mrd ! 

Alas ! the souls to which 
Imagination's shadowy realm is closed, 
Can never know the feeling of intense delight 
That thrills the bosom where poetic fire 
Glows upon the spirit's altar. They hear no 
Unseen minstrels breathing strains like the sound of 
A cascade's waters, murmuring far away ; 
No spirit-forms seem gliding by, rustling their 
Starry wings ; they read no language in the 
Angel eyes of all the beauteous stars, nor does 
The flower of fragile beauty aiford to them 
The type of earth's fairest forms, withered and pale. 

All that was grand or 
Beautiful in Nature kindled a "mysterious 
Eapture'' in her infant bosom ; and as she 
Gazed upon the countless myriads of stars 
That gem the vault of heaven, and melt in softer 
Radiance the scenes of earth, she would sweetly 
Murmur, '' They are like the eyes of angels." 
And the bright warm sunshine would call forth 

her glad 
Young feelings, and like a fairy spirit of 
Their own creation, she would revel in its 
Dreamy light, as it rested sweetly on the 
Dimpling waves of the beautiful Champlain, and 
Quivered like ten thousand golden arrows 'mong 
The rustling leaflets of the ancient trees. 
Thus her magic pencil hallowed every scene, 



154 A MISCELLANY. 

And all was beautified through the veil of her 
Aerial fancy. 

But now, alas ! the 
Brilliant dream has fled. The sunlight of that smile 
Has faded, leaving all shrouded in a deeper 
Gloom. Her harp is hushed and still forever. "The 
Sparkling fount has died within." Sadness steals 
Over my young spirit, and I could weep the 
Tears of woe for that bright gem, forever dimmed 
To us. And still I have a pensive joy, for 
In my spirit-dreams of her, I seem to hear 
" The hymnings of her seraph lyre." 

Like a rose that is withered, she rests in the tomb, 
But the fragrance still lingers, though paled is its 

bloom ! 
And the lyre that wakened such music on earth, 
Now rings throughout heaven, the fair home of its 

birth. 
And methinks that I catch a sweet lingering strain 
That fills my young spirit with pleasure and pain. 
She has faded from earth like a beautiful dream, 
But her memory lingers, like light on a stream ; 
And how fondly we gaze on the lingering ray. 
As the last smile that lumined her features of clay ! 
She is gone! the young spirit imprisoned so long, 
Among angels now warbles her heaven-taught song. 
Like a rose that is withered, she rests in the tomb. 
But the fragrance still lingers, though paled is its 

bloom. 



A MISCELLANY. 155 



To Helen. 

And is my young heart's purest love 

Distrusted, and by tTiee ? 
Must it return like a lone dove, 

To roam no more from me ? 
Think you the image, once so bright, 
Could fade away like transient light ? 

You dream not of the gifts I've laid 
On friendship's lovely shrine, 

All for that one you think can fade 
From this cold heart of mine. 

Ah ! 'tis not true and faithful love 

That deems a friend can faithless prove. 

Fair girlish forms are round me now, 
With smiles and tones of love. 

And pleasant light beams from briglit eyes 
As on they gayly move. 

But my love, Helen, yearns to come — 

Wilt thou refuse to take it home ? 

MoNTiCELLO Seminary, Sept., 1852. 



To Fannie. 

[Reply to a remark made by F, B. in a remembered conversation.] 

Fannie, the poet-angel came 

When I was but a child. 
And kindled in my heart a flame 

That still burns strong and wild. 



156 A MISCELLANY. 

And sometimes in my spirit float 

Fancies so sweetly fair, 
I long to sing in gayest notes 

Of all the beauty there. 

But oh ! the power was never mine 

To speak the half I feel ; 
And if a wreath of thought I twine, 

'Twill but a fart reveal. 

The fairest flowers of feeling lie 
Around my spirit's hearth. 

And no one ever knows but I 
They ever had a birth. 

And then I grow so inly sad — 

I feel so all alone — 
And in my thoughts the bright and glad 

Find not an answering tone. 

Fannie, dear Fannie, would you think 

That this could all be true 
Of one who gayly stoops to drink 

At pleasure's well with you ? 

You know that sometimes we are not 
What we may seem to be — 

You know that round a shaded spot- 
The pleasant light we see. 

My laugh can be the lightest thing 

That ever floats in air. 
Although above me broods the wing 

Of something like despair. 



A MISCELLANY. 157 

And, Fannie, I have seen your eyes, 

Shining with peaceful light. 
Look as if clouds would, fain arise 

To bring on rain and night. 

One thing, I know, is sweetly true — 

'Tis that I always feel 
The charm of gentleness with you 

Around me softly steal. 

A guardian angel you must be, 

With ways so soft and mild, 
Keeping this influence over me 

The wayward poet-child. 

" BlEDIE." 
Vine Lodge, June lOib, 1853 



To Julia. 

We've met in youth, dear Julia, 

The rosy morn of life. 
When Hope, with golden sunshine, 

^eils all the future's strife. 
Oh ! brighter than the dawning 

Of morning's early rays. 
Shines hope upon the spirit 

In girlhood's summer days. 

We've met to tread, dear Julia, 
Life's path a little while. 

With footsteps timed together, 
Cheered by each other's smile. 

But short will be the hours. 



158 A MISCELLANY. 

That flit like birds awaj, 
And then we part to wander, 
Each a different way. 

Yes, we shall part, dear Julia, 
And even may forget 

That in the days of girlhood 
We ever thus had met. 

But if, midst old worn papers. 
These simple lines you see, 

It may wake some remembrance- 
Some passing thought of me. 



"Je pense a vous." 

I aAZE upon the sunset sky. 

With bright clouds floating o'er the blue- 
But far away my thoughts will fly — 

Dear Emeline, Je pense a vous. 

I gather violets fresh and fair. 
So loved by spirits fond and true, 

And then with all of friendship's care, 
My Emeline, Je pense k vous. 

When twilight spreads its dusky pall, 
And starry lamps light up the blue, 

My pensive tears, like dew drops fall, 
For Emeline, Je pense h. vous. 

When, wearied out, I sink to rest. 
And dreams, too bright to be all true. 



A MISCELLANY. 159 

Promise that we shall yet be blest — 
Then, Emeline, Je pense a vous. 

Sweet waking dreams are sometimes mine, 
But whence they come I never knew. 

Only they bring back words of thine, 
When, Emeline, Je pense a vous. 

Vine Lodge, May 10th, 1863. 



Hal Stare. 

Air— ''Ben Bolt." 

Ah ! don't you remember, sweet Emma, Hal Starr, 

And her manner so winsome and kind ? 
From our own sunny clime we have wandered far, 

And her equal we never may find. 
On the fair field of memory beams her soft smile, 

Like a star in a mid-summer night, 
And I turn from the present with you awhile. 

To recall the by-gone with delight. 

Ah ! don't you remember the sweet time, Hal Starr, 

When with Emma, so cherished and dear, 
Our hearts banished all that the present could mar, 

And excluded the phantom of fear ? 
We have journeyed, Hal, on the high-way of life, — 

We've passed together some weary miles. 
But we cannot forget, in the toilsome strife. 

The by-gone, bright with sweet Emma's smiles. 

Ah ! yes, we remember, sweet Emma, Hal Starr, 
With a mingling of pleasure and grief-^— 

With pleasure, because in our wanderings far 
We may cherish the happy belief. 



ICO A MISCELLANY. 

That we live in one heart, fond, faithful, and true, 
And that sometimes in spirit we meet, 

To live o'er the JDast, and old pledges renew, 
That wil] mingle life's bitter with sweet. 



To H ^ * * ^' . 

I WOULD forget the hours of gladness 
That I have spent with thee ; 

I would close the gates of memory, 
And bid those visions flee. 

I would forget the thrilling sadness 

Of thy deep, manly tone, 
A mingling of woman's tenderness 

With the sternness of thine own. 

I would forget the nameless pleasure 
That my young bosom thrilled, 

And with its sweet and mystic spell 
My very pulses stilled. 

I cannot win forgetfulness ! 

It will not shroud from me 
The sad but cherished memories 

I ever have of thee ! 

For still, my friend, thy pleasant smile 

Is sunshine to my heart, 
That clouds can never hide from me, 

Or memory bid depart. 



A MISCELLANY. 161 

And still thy tones of gentleness 

Shall be music in mj soul, 
Awakening kindred melody 

As o'er its chords they roll. 

Vine Lodge, 111., February, 1851. 



To A Lost Fkiend. 

Eight years ago, this fall, Warren, 

Our life-paths chanced to meet, 
And eight years in the coining spring 

You turned a lonlier street; 
I would that you had gone, before 

Words meaningless were said ; 
Then 'twould not shake my heart to hear 

The echo of your tread ; 
No, 'twould not shake my heart, Warren, 

A heart for seven years wed. 

If you are still alive, Warren, 

And in your native land, 
I wonder if this page will feel 

The pressure of your hand ? 
I wonder if your thoughtful glance 

Would kindle with surprise. 
To see this link of a lost chain 

Glitter before your eyes? — 
Link of a slender chain, Warren, 

That bound forgotten ties. 

I would give much to know, Warren, 

If it were true my name 
Became a root of bitterness — 

A thorn, a sting of blame ; 
11 



A MISCELLANY. 

Oh ! idle words — impulsive deeds — 
Would they could be undone 1 

Or only traced upon the sand, 
Where dashing tides do run : 

Tell me, mine tcere in sand, Warren, 
Tide-washed before life's noon. 

But if it be not wrong, Warren, 

In me, a faithful wife, 
I would unseal my lips to say 

This once, in wedded life, 
That next to him to whom I owed 

The gift of heart and hand. 
Ranked in my true regard the one 

They said my smile unmanned. 
Oh ! say you were not one, Warren, 

To build thus on the sand. 

But if indeed I sinned, Warren, 

This feeling in my breast 
Has been sufficient to atone 

For all your heart's unrest ; 
For long ago have you forgot 

My name, however dear. 
But /, wherever my thoughts turn, 

Find accusations near ; 
'Tis well they're only thoughts, Warren, 

And that you cannot hear. 

I'm startled at my task, Warren, 

As if it were a sin. 
By the unweary little feet 

Of children rushing in. 



A MISCELLANY, 163 

But no, it never can be wrong, 

A wrong done to regret, 
And so in penitence I say, 

Better we had not met ; 
This much I ought to say, Warren, 

If face to face we met. 

Hawthornden, October, 1862. 



To Kebecca. 

You remember the sacred story well 

Of Bethuel's beautiful daughter, 
Who went with her pitcher at even-tide. 

To fill at the well with water. 
And further adown the inspired page 

You read how the servant sought her, 
Displaying the presents of jewels rare 

Which he, from his master, brought her. 

You remember, too, how she journeyed far, 

And from off her camel lighted. 
Modestly veiling her beautiful face, 

When Isaac his bride awaited. 
And you know-how her trusting heart was blest. 

And how her love was requited. 
When Isaac brought her to his mother's tent. 

With her modesty delighted. 

'Tis well for us all to remember this, 
And treasure its truth forever — 

That our hearts may accept warm human love, 
But modesty part with, never ; 

That woman may true affection bestow, 



164 A MISCELLANY. 

Upon one who vows to cherisli, 
But still with reserve the rich gift must guard, 
Lest its brightness fade and perish. 

You remember, too, how in after years, 

She sinned — her husband deceiving. 
And taught her own child to sacrifice truth. 

While Isaac's blessing receiving. 
Ah ! truth is a pure and a priceless pearl. 

To our children well worth giving : 
How sweet to know that each word from their lips, 

Our hearts are safe in believing! 

Kemember, then, the Eebecca of old, 

Her beauty modestly hiding, 
And may virtue lead you along life's path, 

To tents of Happiness guiding. 
But stain not the purity of your soul — 

Let no serpent of falsehood gliding. 
Tarnish the beautiful image of Truth 

In your woman's heart abiding. 

Bloomsbuug, Pa. 



To RiA. 



Don't you remember, Ria, 

The summer evenings gone, 
When we oft sat together, 

Talking of sweet hopes flown ? 
The mask I wore to others 

Of gayety and pride. 
Thrown off in the twilight hours, 

When sitting by your side. - 



A MISCELLANY. 165 

Have you forgotten, Ria, 

How often in your room 
We used to tell each other 

Of absent friends, and home ? 
We sometimes talked so sadly, 

Confessing secret fears, 
And sometimes sat in silence, 

Striving to keep back tears. 

Do you remember, Ria, 

The songs you used to sing 
When thus we sat together. 

Overshadowed by night's wing? 
Sweet snatches of that music 

E'en now are floating back, 
Though since then I have wandered 

Far on a wintry track. 

Don't you remember, Ria, 

How oft my aching head 
Drooped down upon your pillow, 

On that low, narrow bed ? 
And you, like some good angel, 

A quiet vigil kept, 
Charming away the aching, 

Soothing me till I slept. 

Another summer, Ria, 

Is slowly coming on. 
But let us still remember 

The one that's past and gone. 
For then we were together. 

But ne'er shall be again — 
And you will sing for others. 

And others soothe my pain. 

Lewisburg, Pa. 



166 A MISCELLANY 



Impeomptu. 

To an editor, who mourned over the losses of friends, and sug- 
gested that it might be better to form no more attachments which 
are so sadly broken. 

Incidentally, sir, you allude 

To losses the heart has sustained — 
Therefore, over the passage I brood ; 
And since, I from tny stand-point have viewed 

The heart-bloom you still have retained. 

Prisoned thoughts, like the dove from the ark. 
Fly straight to the branches of green : 

You uphold in the world's tide — a mark — 

A signal of rest — a light in the dark, 
That I from my window have seen. 

You imagine you walk through the halls 
Of the heart, where friends used to be, 
Looking round on the echoless walls — 
On the floor, where no spirit-foot falls — 
And shut the door, turning the key. 

And you come to the vestibule, back 

To the door looking out of yourself, 
To the edge of the love-beaten track, 
Where most of the flowers Time's frost doth black. 

Save the dry one's for Memory's shelf. 

And as out upon life you thus glance, 

Its waste of cold waters to view, 
The searching look of my soul, by chance 
Over the billows between doth dance, 

To rest on the branch held by you. 



A MISCELLANY. 167 

And to you., in your last door unlocked, 

Where you linger, yet dread to be. 
My thoughts go forth. They could not have looked 
To be taken in, if they had knocked 

After you shut it, turning the key. 

But the mission they have is to plead 

That you open those heart-doors free ! 
For many a hungering soul may need. 
On banquets of kindness like yours to feed, 
That with doors shut you could not see. 

Let the portals of hearts that are hard. 
Lock in what the world should not see, 

But, ah ! never, my friend, must be barred 

A soul that no evil has scarred — 
At least, leave it open to me ! 

ViNELAND, N. J. 



Mary Hawthorne. 

Ai)' — " Annie Laurie." 

'Sylvania braes were bonnie, 

'Sylvania skies were blue, 
And upon sweet Mary Hawthorne 

Fresh fell their simmer dew. 
Fresh fell their simmer dew ; 

Her heart then beat for me, 
And for bonnie Mary Hawthorne 

My luve swelled like the sea. 

Her hair was like the gloamin', 
Her face like mornin' light ; 

Her smile, it was the sunrise 
That chased frae me the night. 



168 A MISCELLANY. 

That chased frae me the night; 

Her heart beat a' for me, 
And for bonnie Mary Hawthorne 

My lave swelled like the sea. 

Like air through the blossoms sighing 
Fell the tones o' her voice sae sweet ; 

And like birds o' simmer flying, 
Sae lightly flew her feet, 

Sae lightly flew her feet; 

But her heart stayed home wi' me, 

And frae bonnie Mary Hawthorne 
My luve nae mair went free. 



Who is She? 

Who is she, Lawrence, 

Fairy or human ? 
This lady Florence — 

Angel or woman? 
Is she a maiden 

With beautiful mind — 
With heart love-laden, 

And spirit refined ? 

Fair is she, Lawrence, 

And spirituelle ? 
Does the name Florence 

Its w^earer fit well ? 
What kind of a look 

Does her young face wear? 
Is her brow a book ? 

Is poetry there ? 



A MISCELLANY. ] 69 

Where is she, Lawrence, 

Your beau-ideal ? 
Is there a Florence, 

Living and real ? 
Is she a fairy, 

Or child, or woman ? 
A phantom airy, 

Or something human ? 

Answer me, Lawrence, 

Speak to me, brother. 
Love you this Florence 

More than another ? 
Tell me about her 

(And let it be true) 
Seems life without her 

Now dreary to you ? 

WiLLlAMSPORT, Pa. 



To Mes. Lieut. Eussell. 

[Upon receiving a sweet bouquet of early ■wild-flowers, which 
she desired to have presented Avithout being known as the giver, 
because we were yet unacquainted.] 

I WILL not take the gift of flowers, 

Except as sent by yoif. 
Because your hand from wild-wood bowers 

Brought them, my path to strew — 
Fresh with the gentle spring-time showers, 

And wet with your heart's dew. 

Then offer not, my friend unknown, 

The gift without the name ; 
My heart refuses not to own 

The source from whence it came , 



no 



A MISCELLANY, 



There's strengtli for thanks left in my tone, 
Though I sing not for fame. 

Then gratefully I take the flowers — 

Take them as sent by you — 
Take them still fresh with spring's soft showers, 

And wet with your heart's dew ; 
x\nd in my heart shall be a bower 

For one I never knew. 

ViNELAND, N. J., April 25tb, 1864. 



To Miss May D , 

Who requested a few lines for remembrance. 

Since last year with its sorrows died. 
My harp has on the willows hung — 

To touch it is to me denied — 

My soul must keep its songs unsung. 

'Twere better so ; an exile's strain 
Must ever be more sad than sweet — 

A needless note in the refrain 

That floats in discord down life's street. 

Yes, better so ; a prairie-bird 
Set free upon 'Sylvanian hills, 

Would know no song save that she heard 
At first beside southwestern rills. 

Wait, wait then for a lighter lay, 
Till out of range of guns I rest ; 

Till pain and grief no longer play 

Like traitor l)atterics 'gainst my breast 

Cushion Mountain, Pa., August 1st, 1864. 



A MISCELLANY. Itl 

Richie's Hair. 

(To E. A. B.) 

It rolled from the letter, the beautiful ring 
You severed for me from the brow of your " King;" 
' ris brown as a nut, yet 'tis shot with gold-light, 
Like gleams of the sun athwart shades of the night. 
Ah ! charmed little ring ! it recalls the by -gone, 
x\nd strangely reminds me of womanhood's dawn ; 
And carries my heart back again to the spot 
That knows me no more, that remembers me not ; 
Hopes, tlien,like false lights in our future did shine, 
But still it is sweet to remember "lang syne." 

Oh, brown little lock ! though unconscious, how 

blest 
To have lain for awhile on so gentle a breast ! 
I gaze, and remember, and envy its lot. 
Oh ! joys that we might have, why have we them 

not? 
The hand that caressed it, and made it to shine 
Has been often and tenderly clasped in mine ; 
And a circlet of gold I have worn for years. 
Once shone on that hand, and the gift it endears ; 
My heart has its sorrows, but this joy is mine — 
For your sake 'tis sweet to remember "lang syne." 

Yes, beautiful hair ! it has made my heart dream — 
Yet again, when I catch its sunny brown gleam, 
It awakens and hurries my thoughts all back 
To the path of the present, to life's worn track. 
I fancy it smiles, the bright sun-tinted curl. 
When I talk in my dream of a " sweet, sweet girl." 



It2 A MISCELLANY. 

'Tis this brings me back from our womanhood' 

dawn, 
Recollecting, alas ! that onr girlhood is gone. 
But though I awake, recollections still shine 
That render it sweet to remember "lang syne/' 



The Eings of Hair. 

I HAVE two sunny rings of hair. 
Preserved for years with tenderest care ; 

Int wined together they are laid, 
The two half-linked in golden braid. 



My memory penetrates at last ; 

I see the two bright beings now — 
And those soft curls upon each brow. 

The shadowy veil they've long since passed — 
And swept alike by wintry blast, 

Or summer's mild and fragrant breath, 
They heed not, locked in arms of death. 

Though seven changeful years have fled, 
Since they were numbered with the dead, 

Their tones of childish music still 
Bring to my heart the old-time thrill ; 

And in remembrance still I keep 
Tlieir last words, as they fell asleep. 



A MISCELLANY. 173 

Sweet words I '' Tm going — going home." 
Thei/ Maw the ligJit — ice felt the gloom. 

But those words, like a healing leaf, 
Lav on the bleeding wounds of grief, 

Ah I much we murmured and repined, 
Refusing long to be resigned. 

But those last words Tvould ever come, 
Until we felt they were at ?tom€ ; 

At home in heaven among the blest — 
Saved from aU sin — at peace — at rest. 

And this all murmuring thought* must queU — 
It is the Lord — He doeth well. 

SCMMESFIELT, IlLS. 



Julie. 



Back to the green fields of the past, 
'Xeath childhood's bluer skies, 

Beyond time's intervening waste 
Do introvert my eyes. 

To view behind these clouds enmassed 
Life's earliest sun arise. 

Together on that fair, fresh morn. 
With some who now are not^ 

We plucked joy's roses without thorn, 
Hope's blossoms without spot ; 

But blasts of fate our flowers have torn- 
Heart-rains have left a blot. 



1*14 A MISCELLANY. 

No happier child than Jnlie trod 
Earth-walks in infant spring — 

No prairie bird from prairie sod 
Ere lifted lighter wing ; 

"Why should she bow beneath a rod 
To which no blossoms cling ? 

No blossoms have I dared to say? 

Why should I mnrmur so? 
When sorrow's cloud God clears away, 

The smallest bud will grow ; 
And in the light of coming day, 

Will swell, unfold, and grow. 

Her angel boy was Heaven's own gift, 

And Heaven, foreseeing ill. 
In love the stainless one did lift 

A brighter sphere to fill. 
Thank God ! he is not now adrift 

On waters never still. 

Hath not the stricken one belief 

She may not now forget, 
That in a heaven garnered sheaf 

Her gathered bud is set ? 
That by her mother this sweet waif 

Was recognized and met? 

Bid her look from the grave-marred earth ; 

Faith brings the prospect nigh — 
The beauty of his heavenly birth 

Her heart should satisfy. 
Then would she see her shadowed hearth 

Spanned by a rainbowed sky. 

October 29th, ISGU. 



A MISCELLANY. 1*15 



Jessie. 

She climbed her happy father's knee, 

And nestled in his arms, 
To show the love-wealth of her heart 

With all of childhood's charms. 
Father and mother stood in light — 

Love-light and sunset rays : 
Night came — and with the darkness, Death- 

Ah ! those unfinished plays ! 

Yes, night and death ! but when the shade 

Her starry eyes had dimmed. 
One slender hand the features traced, 

That on her heart were limned ; 
And so, with kisses on her lips — 

In farewell tears baptized. 
The spirit of the baby passed. 

When death at play surprised. 

Strange that it could surprise oui^ hearts: 

We saw the summer pass — 
We saw the flowers drop into graves 

Amid the prairie grass — 
How thought we this exotic fair, 

This plant of heavenly birth. 
Could live where native flowers die, 

Through winters of the earth ? 

But flowers of earth reblossom soon — 

Spring's resurrection comes ! 
So in the soul-land's summer time, 

Earth's lost exotic blooms : 



176 A MISCELLANY. 

Pray God we may not be earth-grown, 
To long for planting there — 

Pray that our lives may yet be found 
Sweet Christian fruits to bear. 

Then with this last sweet summer rose 

That beautified the fall, 
We may be planted safe within 

God's heavenly garden -wall — 
Eeset a-near the Tree of Life, 

Upon Life's river-side, 
Where never hath a spirit-llower 

Of God's transplanting died. 

December lith, 1862. 



Entertained Unawaee. 

[To n. H., on the departure of the angel she had entertained un- 
awares.] 

We ken not the guises of angels. 

Albeit they are so fai]- ; 
We entertain them as mortals — 

Entertain them unaware. 



A child came into your dwelling, 
Fair as the angels are fair — 

You knew not it was an angel. 
And you kept it, unaware. 

^Yith wings invisibly folded. 
Nor crown on his silken hair, 

Tlow could you tell 'twas an angel 
You entertained imaware ? 



A MISCELLANY. ItT 

He smiled, perchance, when sleeping — 

Smiled as if dreams were fair, 
Yet you felt not the presence of angels — 

They visited unaware. 

But now you ken that this spirit, 

Gone out of his guise so fair, 
Was not your child, but an angel 

You entertained unaware. 

And I pray that upon your pillow 
You may dream of a heavenly stair, 

And the angel beckoning upward, 
That you took in unaware. 

Hawthornden, October 7th, 1864. 



The Golden Gate. 

[In inemoriam of little Carrie Denckler, who was lost in the 
burning at sea of the " Golden Gate/'] 

From the shore of California, 

With the richest of all freight. 
Out upon Pacific waters. 

Buoyant rode the Golden Gate, 
Bearing from the mines their treasures. 

Bearing from the towns their wealth — 
Taking from the plains and mountains 

Gems of living hope and health. 

'Mid its treasures, one home-jewel 
Dimmed by contrast all the rest, 

Taken in its native beauty 

From a mother's love-thrilled breast, 
12 



Its A MISCELLANY. 

To be sent for classic setting 
Eastward, to Atlantic's shore, 

Where the hand of education 

Might enhance its brilliance more. 

It was of resplendent lustre, 

And designed for priceless fame, 
By a heart that deemed it richer 

Than his California claim ; 
Yet 'twas rescued by the Giver 

From temptations of such state, 
Purified from dross in passing 

Through the burning " Golden Gate." 

Precious stone of uncarved beauty. 

Though the first gate it passed through. 
Gleamed all golden in its burning 

On Pacific waters blue — 
It another gate did enter 

When safe borne across death's tide — 
E'en the high and heavenly portal 

That the angels open wide. 

In God's wondrous heavenly temple, 

He had need of such a gem. 
And, ere human hands could mar it, 

Bought it for his diadem. 
There it finds a richer setting — 

There it gleams in fitter frame — 
And, sad souls, you'll see it shining, 

If you there locate a claim. 

ViNELAND, N. J. 



A MISCELLAXy. 1*19 



Kebecca. 

Rest calmlj, Rebecca, beneath the green sod ; 
Rest calmly, thou'rt watched by the angels of God ; 
The cold slab is warmed by the morning's mild beam, 
But its brightness disturbs not your heavenly dream. 

The dews of the night fall like tears on your gTave, 
And the sprigs of the myrtle sigh as they wave ; 
But the sweet hymns of heaven fall soft on your 

ear, 
And your heart can know naught of a sigh or a tear. 

The green turf sinks low on your motionless breast, 
Where your pale hands are folded, and laid to rest, 
But the heart is not weary beneath their weight — 
It has passed from that bosom through heaven's 
pearl gate. 

The grass has grown tall on the sod o'er your feet. 
Concealing the blossoms, blue, fragrant, and sweet, 
That the hand of affection tenderly placed 
On the spot that has laid a mother's heart waste. 

Your lifetime, Rebecca, was but a short dream. 
Your barque was soon wrecked on time's turbulent 

stream, 
But a beacon was shining off heaven's sweet shore. 
And Christ moored you safe there, to rest ever 

more. 

Then rest there, Rebecca, enjoy your release, 
Rest calmly and sweetly — such slumber is peace ; 



180 A MISCELLANY. 

Awake not when morning smiles on your low bed — 
Sleep sweetly till Christ awakes all the loved dead. 

WlLLIAMSPORT, Pa. 



"Light me through." 

(Dying words of a Christian relative.) 

" Shadows are floating before the pale light, 
My frame is touched with the chill of death's night, 
And I feel on my brow the falling dew — 
Then bid me good-night, friends, and light me 
through. 

" I'm going to rest, but the way is drear, 
Though One who has trod the dark path is near; 
Then gather around me, kind hearts and true, 
And whisper farewell, friends! and light me 
through. 

" Morning is coming. The morning of earth 
Will shine on a lonely, desolate hearth ; 
But / shall see light of a heavenly hue — 
Rejoice, then, dear friends ! as ye light me through. 

" The night is far spent, the day is at hand, — 
Now gather around me the household band ; 
Call all my loved ones to bid me adieu — 
Oh ! let them stand near me to light me through." 

They gathered around her, tearful and pale, 
Till the hour for heart and flesh to fail — 
They wiped from her forehead the chill death-dew, 
But a loving Saviour "lighted her through." 



SONGS OF THE HEAKT. 



Smiles and Tears. 

You think because a careless smile 

Eests on me, gay and fair, 
That thoughts of grief cannot tlie while 

Secretly slumber there. 

And yet that smile may be but worn 

To please another's eye, 
While in the heart some cruel thorn 

Hidden and deep may lie. 

When disappointments crush the soul 

And weigh the spirit down. 
And clouds seem overhead to roll, 

A mass of angry frowns. 

You talk of brooding over woes 

Unworthy of a thought ; 
But have you ever felt the throes 

Of pain you set at naught ? 

If your most cherished hope should fail, 
And meet with early blight. 

Would not your cheek with sorrow pale, 
Your eye lose aught of light ? 



182 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Oh ! there is cause for tears and sighs, 
And times when we must weep, 

And woe oft waits to dim young eyes, 
When others close in sleep. 

Vine Lodge, 111., 1850. 



Sadness. 



It steals 
Upon the restless spirit, hushing its 
Glad music, and bidding each starry hope 
Pause in its bright career ; and the light 
Of love and beauty, that ever glows upon 
The altar of the heart, burns dimly. Then 
The fairy dreams and sweet imaginings 
That floated by like rosy clouds, radiant 
With the sun's last smile, melts sadly from the 
Tear-dimmed sight. 

Oh ! why is it, that when the 
Heart is revelling in visions of fair 
And sunny beauty, all too bright for cold 
Eeality, that this strange feeling of 
Unspoken sadness, must steal over the 
Trembling chords, and silently and sadly 
Crush the low-breathed strains of harmony ? 
I've sat and mused of things that live but in 
My own imagination, of seraph smiles 
That flooded all my soul with sunny light, 
And glances from soft starry eyes, that gem 
The heaven of pure dreams, and fill it with 
The radiant light of beauty — till my young 
Bosom heaved with its excess of joy. Then 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 183 

All those sweet unreal things would fade, 
And sadness bid those, wild pulsations cease — 
.Those beauteous dreams forever tiee ! Oh ! then 
The mournful spirit longs to close its rainbow 
Gates, and shut out from its shrinking gaze the 
Dim and joyless scenes of earth. 'Tis like 
Arising from a sunlit dream to gaze 
Upon a clouded sky. 

I have always 
Loved those spirit-flights, and those sweet hours of 
Pensive thought, when the soft twiHght hour comes 
Stealing on, and all is wrapt in calm repose 
And I had thought that no one knew the 
Secret joy my bosom felt, or loved the 
Thoughts so dear to me ; but now I know that 
There are hearts whose trembling strings are tuned to 
The same sad music, and whose sweetest strains 
Can be awakened by a thrilling touch. 
And now those hours are dearer far to me 
If my young eyes but meet an answering gaze 
Erom one who has a kindred heart — a heart 
Of gentleness and truth — a soul all 
Radiant with sympathetic light. And 
If that gaze I cannot meet, then will J 
Mingle thoughts of its deep light with the 
Sylph-like forms that lend their witching beauty 
To my dream. 

Oh ! it were far too beautiful, 
Too bright, and my lone heart would revel in 
Too deep a joy, if the sweet sunshine of 
The smile I love could always beam on me, 
And the music of a true friend's voice fall 



184 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

On my willing ear. Sweet smiles and tones of 

Love are lavished upon hearts icy cold 

As chiselled marble, while those whose young 

Affections gush forth beneath one magic 

Look, or word, or tone, that breathes aught of the 

Music of the heart, are doomed to tread the 

Lonely pathway of this life without that 

Precious gift. 

Oh ! life would not oe lonely, 
Kor would we heed the cruel thorns that 
Cluster round its sweetest, fairest roses, 
If the light of love could beam but once 
Again in eyes now cold and rayless, and 
The sweet sunlight of happiness lend 
Warmth and feeling to the smiles of those who 
Are estranged. Then would the trembling words of 
Love that linger on the parted lip gush 
Forth, like the pent up waters of a 
Crystal fount, to meet a sweet response from 
Hearts all gentleness and tender trust. 

Vine Lodge, Jan. 5, 1852. 



Love Not. 

"Love not! love not! the thing: you love may change, 

The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ; 
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, 

The heart still warmly 'bea,t,yet not be true" 

Mrs. Caroline Nokton. 

Love not! what bitterness the heart must wring, 
What grief its trembling chords must crush, 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 185 

Ere it can rudely break the spells that cling 

Around young hearts in holy trust ! 
Oh ! it must be the blighting woe of years — 

The agony of love estranged — 
Thus to unseal the hidden fount of tears — 

To wring such w^ords from spirits changed. 

Love not ! Ah, soon enough will sadness come, 

Love's transient sunshine to dispel, 
And clouds will lower o'er the spirit's home, 

And sighs too soon the bosom swell ; 
Oh ! breathe not, then, to young and trusting hearts 

Words fraught thus with life's deepest woe ! 
Too soon, too soon, speed the unerring darts 

That cause heart-bleeding tears to flow. 

Love not ! How heavily such words must sink 

Into a heart that yearns to trust. 
And dreams not that upon its fountain's brink 

Love's flowers may wither to the dust. 
Oh ! dark and bitter words ! what voice can fiud 

The power to speak their saddening truth — 
Knowing that they will break the chords intwined 

Around the dreaming hearts of youth ! 

Love not ! I could not tell a trusting heart 

The one so fondly loved will change — 
That smiles from rosy lips would soon depart, 

And beaming eyes " groAv cold and strange." 
And yet there's something now within my soul 

That tells me 'tis not all a dream, 
But that the tide of grief ebbs but to roll 

O'er many a heart lit by love's beam. 



186 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Love not! Athwart my spirit's changing sky 

A gleam of love will sometimes glide, 
And it is all in vain for me to try 

To listen to the voice of pride. 
My heart must love — it cannot live alone, 

To something stronger it must cling — 
All through this dreary vv^orld it cannot roam, 

Throbhing beneath its own frail wing. 

Then let us love ! and for a few^ s4iort years 

Our hearts with happiness may thrill, 
Forgetful of the dark sealed fount of tears 

That may gush out their depths to fill. 
Love in the heart is like a beauteous bird. 

And if imprisoned there alone, 
Will pine for love-light and endearing words, 

And flutter at the first sweet tone. 

Then let us love ! 'tis better far to throw 

The gathered wealth of love away. 
Than live until our hearts have lost that glow, 

Warmer than sunlight in sw^eet May. 
Oh ! it must be a dark and mournful thing 

To feel the heart with time grow old. 
Unshaded by affection's loving wing, 

And no buds blooming in its fold. 

Vine Lodge, Feb., 1852. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 18t 

A Fragment. 

* * * Ere tlie glad hours of youth have 
Fled, and while their rosy tints yet glow 
Around us, and fair morning flowers lie 
Fresh upon life's pathway — to fond 
Expectancy we give the golden 
Hours. Our dreams are bright as rainbow hues; 
Beautiful as when, at dawn, the pale 
Gray sky glows in the fast appearing 
Light. 

Then, in graver years, when clouds 
Have dimmed the summer skies, memory 
Recalls tiiose morning dreams, to mock us 
With their fair deceiving hues. 

Vine Lodge, Maj-, 1852. 



A Plaint. 

(Written in sickness.) 

On ! many a sweet " bird-warbled strain" 

Is floating on the air. 
Waking responsive melody 

In bosoms young and fair. 

And warm young hearts are revelling 

In many a beauteous dream, 
And gilding all the coming years 

With hope's pure golden beam. 

Alas! my fairest dreams have fled, 
And yet they haunt me still, 



188 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Until my aching brain grows wild, 
And my sick pulses thrill. 

What bitterness it is to feel 
That life's best, sunniest hours 

Have faded from us like the hues 
Of evanescent flowers ! 

My spirit folds its weary wings 
To droop in silence now, 

For there is blight in every breath 
That fans ray burning brow. 

Vine Lodge, May, 1852. 



To Die and be Forgotten. 

'Tis sad to know that I must pass 
Like some wild dream away, 

Or perish like a flower of spring 
That blooms but to decay ; 

That those I shrine within my heart, 

And give my purest love, 
As the flowers give their fragrance 

To winds that float above, — 

That from their memory I must fade 
For those more bright and fair, 

When I would give my wealth of love 
To be remembered there. 

The flowers that now expand for me, 
Will then for others bloom, 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 189 

"Who will not give a passing thought 
To one within the tomb. 

The wild and twining brier-rose, 

Simplicity's sweet flower, 
That oft I've in my bosom lain 

To cheer a lonely hour, 

Will then be culled by other hands, 

IsTear otber hearts be laid, 
That never have a thought of one, 

Doomed like that flower to fade. 

The winds that I have loved to hear 
Breathe through the forest lone. 

Will whisper then to other hearts 
In the same changeful tone. 

Alas ! 'tis hard to bear the thought 

That loved ones will forget — 
That changing years can make it seem 

As though we ne'er had met. 

'Tis hard to feel that time can thus 

Estrange all kindred minds, 
When once each thought of those fond hearts 

Together were intwined. 

I watched a lovely bud unfold 

Its tiny leaves this spring, 
When the mild air that breathed around ^ 

Seemed stirred by spirit-wings. 

And when my blushing flower grew pale, 
And feebly drooped its head, 



190 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

I mourned as tliougli all lovely things 
From this sad world had fled. 

But now I have another rose, 

As lovely in its hloom 
As that sweet flower now passed away 

Into its grassy tomb. 

And thus 'tAvill be when I am gone — 
The love that now is mine 

Will briefly mourn, and then go out, 
Eound some new heart to twine. 



My Girlhood. 

My life has been like summer skies 

When they are fair to view, 
But there never yet were hearts or skies 

Clouds might not wander through ! 

Mrs. L. p. Smith. 

The dreamlike years of girlhood 

Are passing o'er me now. 
Nor have they left a shadow 

Upon my cheek or brow. 
They have not hushed the music 

Within my youthful heart, 
Or stolen one fair image 

With which I would not part. 

No blast of real sorrow 

Has swept across my path, 
To wither lovers sweet blossoms 

With cold and icv breath : 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 191 

Still affection's changeless light 

Within a mother's eye 
Beams with all the radiance bright 

Of stars in midnight's sky. 

And still my heart is lonely, 

I never can tell why — 
'Tis ever filled with longing 

For something pure and high ; 
And still my bosom's gladness 

Is shadowed by a spell, 
That holds with wondrous power 

My soul's most hidden cell. 

Even when I am wandering 

In summer wood and vale, 
And bird songs free are floating 

Upon the murmuring gale — 
I've thought in their wild melody, 

Gushing so free and glad. 
That there seemed something pensive, 

A something almost sad. 

Alas ! 'twas born within me— 

I cannot break the spell. 
And thus 'twill ever bind me 

To drink at sorrow's well. 
"Where others see all sunshine, 

And naught but what is fair, 
For me there is a shadow 

All darkly waving there. 

Vine Lodge, 1852. 



192 SONGS OF THE HEART. 



The Summer's Light. 

The summer's golden light has faded 

Like the soft light of a dream. 
And we sadlj watch its brightness 

Melt away from grove and stream ; 
And the sunbeams down in pity 

On the rainbow-colored woods, 
And earlier than in summer-time 

Dusky twilight o'er us broods. 

Yes ! the summer's light has faded 

Like the soft light of a dream, 
And the traces of its glory 

Fast are leaving grove and stream. 
Now the air is blue and smoky, 

And its ardent heat is gone ; 
Sooner fall the shades of evening. 

Later comes the morning dawn. 

Vi>-E Lodge, 111., 1852. 



Sympathy. 

How strong the links of that bright chain 
That winds around the heart — 

Its sweet existence cherislied there, 
A nd of itself a part ! 

'Tis strange that oft a thought expressed 

Can touch a sensitive string 
In other hearts, and to the eyes 

A tearful tribute briug. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 193 

When shadows on my own heart fall, 

And when I am alone, 
The thoughts so sad I often write 

May find an answering tone. 

For mine is not the only heart 

Where sadness droops awhile, 
To chase away the influence sweet 

Of every happy smile. 

No, I am not the only one 

Alive to pangs of woe, 
For there are sympathizing hearts, 

And kindly ones, I know. 

Ofttimes I feel a crushing weight 

Pressing my spirit down. 
Only because there's so much pain 

In hearts beside my own. 

I cannot see another wear 

A look of grief or pain. 
Without awakening in my heart 

Pity's most tender strain. 

While sadness holds my youthful heart 

In its resistless thrall. 
The griefs of others ne'er can fail 

To cause my tears to fall. 

St. Louis, Mo., 1853. 

13 



194 SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Yearnings. 

" Give me but 
Something whereunto I may bind my heart, 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affection's tendrils round." 

Oh ! for a kindred spirit ! 

A heart to beat with mine, 
Whose tendrils of aftection 

Around my own may twine ! 

Oh ! for that true devotion, 

That, like a shaded well, 
Sends up its living water 

When drawn by love's sweet spell ! 

How often in my bosom 
Is this vain murmur stirred, 

For some sweet voice in music 
To breathe endearing words ! 

And then my very tenderness 
Comes like a matchless dove, 

And in my bosotn nestles 
Without a thing to love. 

Back to their shaded fountain 

Affection's waters flow, 
Without the radiant sunlight 

They pine for, as they go. 

Just like a hart that's thirsting 
For waters cool and pure. 

So is my spirit longing 
For love that will endure. 



SONGS OF THE HEART 195 

I drank once at the fountain — 

'Tis strange I thirst again : 
Oh ! for deep oblivion 

To roll o'er all my pain ! 

Can nothing still the whisper 

Like music's dying gush, 
That floats to me at twilight 

And in the midnight's hush? 

Dreams come then to my spirit 

Of love's beguiling tone, 
That ere I wake to listen 

Are gone again — all gone ! 

And heaven-blue eyes are haunting 

My ever restless sleep 
With tender love and sadness, 

Compelling me to weep. 

Strains of persuasive music 
Across my heart-strings flow. 

Recalling things forgotten 
Of days long, long ago. 

And then I grow so lonely, 

So full of sad unrest, 
And strange conflicting feelings 

War in my troubled breast ; 

Yet scarce heed I the whisper, 
'•Turn thou from earth away," 

So prone am I to linger, 
So well content to stay ! 

St. Louis, Mo., 1853. 



196 SONGS OF THE HEART. 



The Two Pictukes. 

I HAYK two pictures in my heart — 

I keep tliem side by side, 
That the same light that falls on one 

May o'er the other glide. 

One is a gentle, moonlight face, 
With eyes where shadows sleep, 

And lips that seem to breathe the songs 
That used to make me weep. 

Her dark hair parts upon her brow 
So young and smooth and fair, 

Yet I who know her heart so well 
Can see a shadow there. 

Oh ! mournful eyes, how oft I've gazed 

Into their depths of blue, 
Till, adding all the gloom of mine, 

They darker, sadder grew ! 

Oh ! ruby lips, how oft they've pressed 
Their warmest kiss on mine, 

"When round each other's girlish forms 
Our arms would fondly twine! 

But that is past, and I must now 

Eemember days gone by. 
And find how true that happiest hours 

Are always swift to fly. 

Now slowly from that picture dear 
I turn my eyes away. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 197 

To meet the glance that thrills my heart 
Through dreaming night and day. 

I look upon his forehead pale, 

I see his curling hair, 
And mark the serious, earnest look 

I always see him wear. 

I look into his eyes, and feel 

Their influence sweet and strange. 

Just as I felt it when at first 
It made my young heart cliange. 

Their names are linked together in 

My never spoken thought, 
And oft it seems that her young life 

Is with his own inwrought. 

And thus it is, that I love him. 

And yet have many a dream 
That I may part with him, to glide 

Alone down life's dark stream. 

Vine Lodge, June, 1S53. 



Fantasia. 



I TAKE my sad neglected lyre 

To chant another strain. 
Fraught with all the impassioned fire 

That's burning in my brain. 

I turned from this poor harp away, 
And said I would not wake 



198 SONGS OFT HE HEART. 

Upon its chords a single lay, 

Altlioiigli ray heart should break. 

I said this fever of the soul 

Might conquer even life, 
Before the flood of song should roll 

Like lava o'er its strife. 

But ah ! there is a gush of song 
Like storm-waves on the sea, 

And such wild thoughts my spirit throng 
That they have conquered me. 

Oh ! I am all too young to bear 

In life so sad a part — 
To live among the gay and fair 

With such a mournful heart. 

I dare not think hoAv dark a change 
Has clouded my life-dream, 

Making the world more cold and strange 
Than it was wont to seem. 

I've struggled in the still night-time 
To break love's tightening chain. 

Striving to think but of that clime 
Where tail no tears of pain. 

But love had grown too deep and strong 

To perish with my tears, 
For I had cherished it too long — 

Even from childhood's years. 

And now, alas! when my poor heart, 
With its long struggle worn, 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Seems cold enough witli love to part, 
It feels another thorn. 

I own 'tis joy that I may bring 

My exiled love again 
To be a bright acknowledged thing 

Where once it hid with pain. 

But ah ! the black bewildering spell 

Lies on my spirit yet : 
Another mourns — all is not well — 

This, this must I regret. 

June 16th, 1853. 



A Deeam-Thought. 

There is a thought, a cherished thing. 
To which my heart will fondly cling, 
Although I know 'twill shadows fling 

O'er my young life. 

I've tried to break the glittering chain, 
Nor feel its tightening links again, 
For it can bring me only pain 

And bitter strife. 

And yet 'tis tempting thus to dream — 
To feel hope's ever radiant beam 
Awhile within my young heart gleam — 
A sun-bright ray. 

I fear its brightness soon must fade. 
Like light within a sylvan glade, 
That oft has through the foliage played. 
Then danced away. 



200 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

But while there still is light to shine 
I'll let it in this heart of mine, 
As lightnings in a shining line 

Eound black clouds play. 



At Sunset. 

This eve the angels must have gazed 

Upon the azure sky, 
Until the sea of air has caught 

The hue of every eye. 

'Tis like a clear unruffled lake 
With many a bright cloud isle. 

That rests all motionless and still 
In sunset's last warm smile. 

The spirit of the summer wind 

Has gently fallen asleep, 
And fragrant dews are falling down 

Like tears that angels weep. 

Be still, my harp. I go alone 

To wander at this hour : 
Wrapt in a robe of pleasant thought, 

I'll feel its gentle power. 



Expectancy. 

The shadows deepen, and the whispering air 
Breathes tender words to me, 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 201 

As it comes stealing thro' tlie vine-wreathed porch 
Where I sit wearily. 

Thus, often at the twilight honr I sit, 

With one hand 'neath my head, 
And start, and waken from my dreaming wild 

To hear a well-known tread. 

That gentle tread ! when stars peep thro' the vines 

All heavy with the dew, 
It comes ! and then my heart beats high to hear — 

'' To-night I'll be with yon." 

Bnt often at that still and lonely hour, 

AVhen I am thus alone, 
I listen, half expecting soon to hear 

That welcome step and tone — 

And yet it comes not ; though with dewy eyes 

I peer where shadows lie, 
And send out from my bosom's depths of love 

A vain, unanswered sigh. 

I cannot find the language to express 

The sweet but mournful thrill 
That rushes through my spirit's inmost depths, 

And makes my heart stand still. 

For I grow sick with waiting all in vain 

The coming step to hear. 
And think that I will never hope again, 

Until I Tcnow 'tis near. 



202 SONGS OF THE HEAET. 

But still I wait and wish that he would come, 

And kindly speak to me, 
For then I know full well that all this gloom 

Would from my spirit flee. 

August, 1853. 



Good-night. 

Good-night, dear love ! How oft I say 

Those fond words ere we part ! 
And yet one moment more I stay, 

Pressed closely to your heart. 
Oh ! dearly do I love to rest 

This weary head of mine 
Within the arms that I love best — 

Those gentle arms of thine. 

Good-night, dear love ! again, good-night 1 

Now lead me to the door, 
And do not let the flickering light 

Gleam o'er the darkened floor. 
I take no lamp to guide my feet, 

Or cheer the silent gloom 
That chills my spirit's fancies sweet. 

And Alls my lonely room. 

Good-night! I've said it twice before — 

I'll speak it once again, 
And when this last sweet parting's o'er, 

I'll surely leave you tlien. 
Midnight is past — the feeble light 

Is burning very low — 
And though 'tis hard to say good-night, 

Dear love, I now must go. 



SONGS OF THE HEART, 203 

When light beams on the window-pane 

At early, bright sunrise, 
The only drops of autumn rain 

Will fall from my sad eyes. 
For then, dear one, you'll go away 

And leave my heart alone ; 
No hand will o'er its still chords stray 

Or wake its deepest tone. 

Then, dearest love, good-night ! good-night ! 

I go from your embrace ; 
I must no longer watch the light 

Of love upon your face. 
Oh ! love — how much of pain it brings 

To hearts so young as mine, 
For when I say good-night, I cling 

More tenderly to thine. 

Vine Lodge, September, 1853. 



My Soul. 

My soul is like the sunny sky. 

And through its cloudless fields of air 
Bright birds of thought are flitting by, 

Swift-winged and beautifully fair. 
With wild despair I call them back, 

As, one by one, they disappear, 
Or gaze along their azure track 

Till sunlight's darkened by a tear. 

Again, my soul is like the sky. 

When daylight fades to twilight gray, 



204 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

And evening winds begin to sigh 
And throngh the trembling foliage play ; 

For then pure thoughts most radiant gleam, 
Filling my soul with lovely light, 

Just as the stars in beauty beam 
Upon the dusky brow of night. 

Again, 'tis like a full-toned harp. 

With angel fingers on the chords. 
Thrilling with songs the darkest part. 

Too wildly sweet for human words. 
There's not a song by sweet lips sung 

That ever thrills my frame like this, 
Or tone upon the free air flung. 

So fraught with joy, so full of bliss. 

And yet I could be happier far 

If I could only change my heart, 
And have no thoughts, like bird or star. 

To come and then so soon depart. 
I strive to make each bright bird mine. 

As it flits by on radiant wing ; 
But ah ! 'tis all in vain I pine, 

For such a great and glorious thing. 

Each bird in distance fades away, 

Each brilliant star grows faint and dim. 
And angel-fingers cease to play. 

Or change it to a wailing hymn. 
And then my soul is like a room 

Left desolate and lone at night, 
With not a lamp to light its gloom. 

Or mark the voiceless hours' flight. 

October, 1S53. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 205 

Bury me m the evening. 

Suggested by Mrs. S. J. Hale's poem, " Bury me in the morning." 

BuET me in the evening, mother, 

Oh ! lay me down to rest. 
When the last red gleam of sunset fades 

From out the rosy west ; 
For I would not have the morning light 

In merry mockery play 
So soon upon my new-made grave, — 

On clay that covers clay. 
Then bury me in the eve, mother, 

And lay me down to rest 
"When the gorgeous light of sunset fades 

From out the tinted west. 

Bury me in the evening, mother. 

Oh ! lay me down to sleep 
Just when the pitying tears of night 

Will o'er my fresh grave weep. 
I know the sunbeams in early morn 

Will kiss those tears away, 
But not ere they damp the heavy clods 

That on my bosom lay. 
Then bury me in the eve, mother. 

And lay me down to sleep 
Just when the beautiful tears of night 

Will o'er me kindly weep. 

Bury me in the evening, mother. 

Oh ! lay me in that bed 
Where never again the arm of love 

Will pillow my young head. 



206 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Then give me a last, a lingering kiss, 

And whisper a good-night. 
Although I may not answer back 

Erom lips all cold and white. 
Then bmy me in the eve, mother, 

And lay me in that bed 
Where never again love's hand may smooth 

The pillow 'neath my head. 

Bury me in the evening, mother, 

And let the night-winds come, 
To murmur mournfully as I sleep 

Within the grave's deep gloom. 
And the same cool winds will darkly steal 

All through my room all night, 
And they'll tell you of my vacant place, 

And of my spirit's flight. 
Then bury me in the eve, mother, 

And let the night-winds come. 
To murmur mournfully as I sleep 

Within the grave's deep gloom. 

October, 1853. 



Dark Thoughts. 

On ! that I had never known my own 
Sad heart, with all its wild impassioned 
Waves of feeling, that roll like burning 
Lava through its rayless depths. Then had 
I never known that over its still 
Chords, the spirit of undying song 
Had swept its starry wings, and kindled 
In its depths the Avild poetic flame 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 201 

That never can die out. My heart was 
Like the midnight, cold and dark, without 
One beam of light unveiled, to pierce the 
Gloom, until the angel of sweet song 
In silence came, and left this one pale 
Star. But now I would give back the gift, 
That never more these mournful strains might 
Whisper to my Aveary over-burdened heart; for oh ! 
Such dark bewildering thoughts, so passionate 
And unholy, have robbed me of all , 
Calmer joy, and left an aching in 
My worn-out heart, that one so young should 
Never know. 

And when the flood of song 
Is rushing through my soul, I touch my 
Untaught lyre, and breathe in hurried strains 
The thoughts that struggle to escape from 
Their lone prison-cells, the chambers of 
This darkened heart. And then, when I have 
Breathed the last wild note, the echoes ring 
Throughout my soul, and bring thetn back once 
More ; and through my frame a feeling creeps 
As though a spirit laid its icy 
Fingers on my brow, as if to cool 
The flush of fever burning there. Then 
Melancholy thoughts steal in, with dark 
Despair, because the sweetest strain that 
T can sing is cold and passionless 
To what my feelings are. 

It is a 
Bitter thought to me, that what I love 
And cherish in my deepest heart must 
Glow with unseen brightness there, and die 
Away ; just as a lamp at midnight 



208 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Flashes out upon the gloom that like 
A pall is drooping o'er the world. Oh ! 
Spirit of the sweet-toned harp, take back 
Thy dangerous gift ! My heart has bowed, a 
Fervent worshipper at thy dear shrine, 
And round each thought of mine thy golden 
Chain has long been bound. But, oh ! take back 
Thy gift, and give me in its stead the 
Calm untroubled dreams that live in 
Girlish hearts— in every heart but mine ; 
Then will the star-lit glance of hope beam 
On my brow ; and when I sleep, his wings 
Will gently droop around me, that e'en 
My dreams may all be bright. Alas ! it 
Cannot be!~that one pale star still shines 
Upon my spirit's altar, and the 
Angel will not take it back. 

St. Louis, Mo., 1853. 



Music. 



Give me sweet music when the light 

Of day grows dim ; 
Let it sink softly in my heart — 

A solemn hymn. 
Let it steal gently all along 

The twilight aisle. 
Where memory o'er her treasure broods 

Without a smile. 

Give ine sad music when my heart 

Is full of tears. 
And the soul's shadows wander back 

To by -gone years. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Let it be like a sweet bird's song 

When summer's fled, 
And the flowers in the woodland paths 

Lie pale and dead. 

Give me rich music when I feel 

Poetic fire 
Like lightning run along the chords 

Of my souFs lyre. 
Let voice and harp their music blend 

The air to fill, 
And I will drink in with my breath 

The holy thrill. 

Give me glad music when the beams 

Of golden light 
Fall round me from the wings of joy 

In its quick flight. 
Like the sweet flow of crystal waves 

At even-tide, 
Let it join the river of my thoughts, 

And onward glide. 

Oh ! give me music that can change 

With every thought. 
As it floats o'er the mind's dark sea, 

With danger fraught — 
For thoughts upon that sea are like 

Some fragile bark. 
Sent out to drift upon deep waves 

When it is dark. 

Then give me those Eolian strains — 
Those changeful notes 
14 



209 



210 SONGS OF THE HEART 

That richly rise — then die away, 

As the wind floats ; 
Let it be like the melody 

Of gondoliers — 
Now making the heart glad and then 

Melting to tears. 

Fruitland, January, 1854. 



To Jack. 

(A Canary bird.) 

On ! sing to me, birdie ! sing one gentle strain, 
For in thy bird-heart there is surely no pain ; 
Then cease thy wild fluttering — fold thy wing. 
And while I sit dreaming in idleness, sing. 
There is tenderness in those dear notes of thine, 
That strengthens the love -chords that round my 
heart twine. 

Oh ! sing to me, darling ! there's darkness and gloom 
Settling o'er me like night in a lonely room ; 
And as ocean-Avaves heave 'neath the pale cold light 
Of the moon and stars in the stillness of night, 
So my thoughts are all swelHng beneath the beam 
The spirit of sadness sheds over my dream. 

Oh, sing to me, pet ! for the window is bright, 
With rays of the morning's soft golden-winged light, 
And I long for thy music to gladden my heart 
Ere the sunshine and beauty of morn depart; 
Already 'tis fading and paling away — 
'Twill glide from one spot to another all day. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 211 

Oh, sing to me, bright one ! there's no music here. 
And no voice or step that in softness steals near; 
Without, it is desolate, lonely, and cold — 
The air is all chill, though the light is like gold ; 
And within, there is nothing that's glad but thee, 
And nothing that's half so lone-hearted as me. 

Then sing, darling, sing to me while I am sad ; 

Thy music is always so tenderly glad ; 

It sinks not like mockery lightly to sleep. 

But it comes like kind pity to hearts that weep. 

And reminds me how childhood with loving fears, 

Will cling to a dear one to kiss away tears. 

Fruitland, January 7th, 1854. 



Complaining. 

Over the fountain in my heart 

There is a dark cloud stealing. 
And a spirit hand has strangely chilled 

The warmest waves of feeling. 
Upon this fountain of sweet song, 

Light, now, is never shining — 
Upon its brink no flowers grow — 

No wreath for me is twining. 

But close beside its waters deep 

A willow-tree is bending. 
And the darkness of its mournful shade 

With the pale light is blending. 
From the time the fountain broke its seal 

The willow has been growing, 



212 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

And now tlie snn can no more sliine 
Where the cold waves are flowing. 

One chord upon my poor frail harp 

By a rude touch was broken, 
And if now I sing the songs I love, 

A part is left unspoken. 
Each string beside the dear one lost 

Wails out a strain of sadness, 
And there is mourning in my heart 

For its one note of gladness. 

Alas ! the fountain must be sealed. 

With shadows on it sleeping ; 
And its waves must struggle up in «lrops 

To fill my eyes with weeping. 
The dust of time will gather there, 

The seal forever hiding ; 
And none may know there is a stream 

Beneath it darkly gliding. 

Oh ! what a heart will I have then — 

What things within its keeping! 
A broken harp on a drooping tree — . 

A fountain in it sleeping ; 
A harp, whose lightest song will have 

An undertone of sadness — 
A fount whose waters never more 

Can murmur out their gladness. 

FR0ITLAND, Feb., 1854. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 213 



The Heavy Kain. 

Fkom the burdened clouds 
Falls the heavy rain, 

Beating with mournful sound 
On the window-pane. 

Erom my laden heart 
That's heavy with fears, 

Wells up from stormy depths 
Vain and useless tears. 

But the heavy rain 
Now ceases to fall, 

And a hush — a stillness, 
Settles over all. 

From my laden heart 
Tears no longer rain, 

And stillness settles there, 
And quiet pain. 

'The Bird Cage," March, 1854. 



Fakewell to my Harp. 

I TOUCH thy strings, my own dear harp. 
To breathe a sad farewell — 

To nmrmur out the darkened thoughts 
That in my bosom dwell. 

There is no music in my heart — 
It fled like some sweet dream, 



214 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Or like a sunbeam glancing down 
Upon a hidden stream. 

I strive to call forth one sweet strain ; 

I touch the trembling string ; 
Alas ! there is no music there — 

'Tis now a tuneless thing. 

Wild thoughts are rushing through my brain, 

So strangely dark and sad, 
I almost feel that ne'er again 

My spirit can be glad. 

I hate to see a sunny smile — 

I dread its joyous gleam : 
Oh ! will I ever wake again 

From this bewildering dream? 

Farewell ! my harp, a long ftirewell ! 

We part forever now ! 
Thy simple strains no more can chase 

The shadows from my brow. 

I linger o'er thy ruined chords, 

And tears of vain regret 
Unbidden from my eyelids start, 

And make my lashes wet. 

Why must we part, my faithful harp. 
Why must thy tones be hushed ? 

Why must the hope of my young life 
Be now forever crushed ? 

Oh ! can I never wake again 
Each low familiar tone ? 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 215 

Must every note now darkly die, 
And leave my heart alone ? 

Well, let the very echoes die, 

The sound but gives me pain ; 
Let me forget my broken harp 

With this last, farewell strain. 

St. Louis, Mo. 



"Watching. 

The long day was waning, 
And still it kept raining, 

Dismally pouring down. 
Alone, I sat watching 
Dark figures approaching — 

Soon in the darkness gone. 

Every footstep nearing, 
Every form appearing. 

Awakened hope in vain ; 
And slowly came stealing 
Over every feeling. 

Disappointment's deep pain. 

My warm heart was chilling — 
My sad eyes were filling 

With tears, like coming rain ; 
Yet — myself deceiving — 
Still half-way believing, 

I, lingering, looked again. 

The children were sleeping — 
I only was keeping 



216 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Watch for the absent one ; 
By flashes of lightning, 
The dreary street bright'ning, 

I saw men hurrying on. 

But no feet were turning 
To where I sat, yearning — 

Yearning for him to come. 
The dull hours were passing — 
The wild winds were chasing 

Wanderers, hastening home. 

"Ah ! why art thou staying?" 
My heart began saying — 

" Thou knowest I look for thee ? 
The rain's mournful throbbing. 
Its pitiful sobbing, 

Talk to your heart of me." 

The evening was waning — 
My eyes ached with straining — 

Straining to pierce the gloom ; 
My sweet hope was dying. 
And, silently sighing, 

I slowly sought my room. 

Reluctantly leaving. 
Still fondly believing 

It was not yet too late — 
At the door delaying — 
Then pensively saying, 

" 'Tis vain to watch and wait." 

April 22d, 1860. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 21t 



Eemembering. 

I'm sitting alone in the open door, 
Remembering days that can come never more ; 
The incessant noise in the busy street, 
The whirl of carriages — the tread of feet, 
Comes, borne on the wing of the fitful breeze, 
Blent strangely with its murmurings thro' the trees ; 
But it all comes to one who heeds it not — 
The past is present — the present forgot. 

This hour in the evening, five years agone, 
I stood on a boat, and the sun smiled down 
On the Mississippi, coming in pride 
To meet the Missouri, his queenly bride. 
And / was a bride, and was young in years, 
Though old in the hours of pain and of tears. 
My heart had been wounded, and I had pined 
For the grave to hide me from friends unkind. 

I had borne it long, — I had lived apart 

From the one who had won my free young heart ; 

I suffered, yet lived, after months, to come 

Over lake and prairie, again to my home. 

And then I renewed my promise to be 

Bride of that one who was faithful to me. 

Few, few were the words that bound us for life — 

It seemed but a dream Avhen he called me, wife. 

But my heart beat fast with fears unexpressed, 
And thrilled with a feeling of vague unrest ; 
I thought of the friends we had lost for aye. 
Who rather than bless us would curse that day. 



218 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

I thonght of his father's angry frown, 

And I asked my heart where its pride had flown; 

I thought of his sister, coldly estranged, 

I remembered hio mother, too, so changed, 

And I sighed as I stood on tlie sunlit deck. 

Thinking of hopes that were now but a wreck. 

But that time is past, and five changeful years, 
Have scarce brought a joy unmingled with tears. 
Even happiness seems a shroud to wear. 
And pleasures, when grasped, seem no longer fair ; 
The starry-eyed children I love so well. 
Brought shadows with love m my heart to dwell, 
For I think of their future life with dread, 
Till in jjasdonate love^ I wish them dead. 

Alas ! it is hard to remember all 
That has turned the sweetness of life to gall; 
To think how in childhood the shadow fell — 
llow the years of girlhood deepened the spell — 
How it thickened around me when a bride — 
How it stalks like a shadow at my side. 
And over the fairest and loveliest thing 
Of mine, it still folds its ebon wing. 

I have sat here long in the open door, 
Reviewing those days that can come no more. 
The hour is past, and the sunlight gone, 
And still 1 am sitting, alone, alone. 
Fall round me, ye dusky pinions of night, 
That sleep may steal over my weary sight. 
Breathe round me, chill air of the even-tide, 
Steal from me my thoughts of that pale, sad bride. 

July 10th, 1860. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 219 



Last Night. 

I STOOD at the upper window, 
Alone in the lonesome hall, 

And I watched the shadows gather, 
And I saw night's curtain fall, 

1 looked through the falling rain-tears, 
Far down to the dismal street — 

1 heard the ceaseless pattering 
Of the many stranger-feet. 

My heart had throhbed expectantly — 
It had thrilled the whole day long ; 

And Hope in its open door-way 
Had carolled her happiest song. 

But at night her sweet voice faltered : 
She folded her wings, poor bird ! 

Instead of a joyous carol, 

Low sobs were the sounds I heard. 

But I locked within my bosom 
The upheaving tide of tears, 

And met, with a prayer for courage, 
The ghosts of terrible fears. 

I entered my silent chamber — 
I languished the long, dark night; 

Yet dreaded to see the morning. 
And cursed the beautiful light. 



220 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

But still it is sweetly shining, 
Kissing the rain from the street, 

Paving with gold the long sidewalk, 
'Neath the many stranger-feet. 

On a sunny street far distant 
Walks the one for whom I wait ; 

He knows not that Hope ceased singing 
Last night in the open gate. 

Bloomsbukg, April 14th, 1861. 



My Blossom. 

This sweet April morning 
Once again returning, 

Brings back the day, 
"When on my faint bosom 
A fragile pink blossom 

Half open lay. 

A fair, human flower, 
Born amid the shower 

Of a heart's rain — 
Entering existence 
With feeble resistance 

Against its pain. 

Five Aprils, swift passing, ' 
Thus rapidly chasing 

The years away, 
Have upraised my blossom 
From the ftiint young bosom 

Where first it lay. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 221 

Each spring-time unfolds it. 
Each new year beholds it 

More fully blown ; 
Yet also discloses 
That fault of sweet roses — 

Its thorns have grown. 

Oh ! prune it, our Eather ! 
And tenderly gather 

Away each thorn ; 
And in the bi'uised places 
Plant heavenly graces 

My bud to adorn. 

While within life's portal 
Blooms this flower immortal, 

Care for each leaf; 
And when angels find it, 
Bid them safely bind it 

In a good sheaf. 

Then beside life's river 
Oh ! plant it forever, 

No more to die ; 
Or on Jesus' bosom 
Place my cherished blossom 

In peace to lie. 

Bloomsburg, April 2lst, 1862. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Bo-Peep. 

The shadows of night and the red firelight 

Meet, and together creep 
From the glowing grate, in the evening late, 

In corners to play Bo-Peep. 

In from the street patter little feet, 

Soon to lie still in sleep. 
And cunningly glide with the shadows to hide, 

Ending the day with Bo-Peep. 

The carpet's warm stains near the window panes, 

All in a rainbow heap, 
Blush under the lace thrown off the moon's face, 

When with Earth she plays Bo-Peep. 

Then the dreaming soul, in the crimson coal, 

Builds splendid castles cheap. 
To be overthrown by some burning stone 

Suddenly playing Bo-Peep. 

Hope's beautiful light — disappointment's night — 

Meet, and together creep. 
Checkering our fate both early and late. 

Constantly playing Bo-Peep. 

The spirit's sin-stains — the heart's after-pains — 

All in a heavy heap. 
Blush through the thin lace veiling each face, 

In the world's great game, Bo-Peep. 

Adown life's street wander many feet, 
Soon in the grave to sleep, 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 223 

Yet by the wayside attempting to hide, 
Thus playmg with Death Bo- Peep. 

But the weary soul that reaches the goal 

Where the pilgrims stop to sleep, 
Finds no corners wide wherein to hide, 

For Death ends Life's game — Bo-Peep. 



Geief. 

Oh, grief! oh, grief! 
Oh, sad suspense and deep despair! 

Where is relief 
From burdens hard to bear ? 
Storm-bended reed, 

Sad soul ! thou art ; 

Break, break, and bleed, 

Poor stricken heart. 

Oh, care! oh, care! 
Oh, phantom, frightening rest away ; 

'Tis hard to bear — 
But come ! your victim slay ! 
Yes, poisoned heart, 

No balm can heal — 
Then beat and smart, 
Or cease to feel. 

Oh, destiny ! 
Oh, cruel and relentless fate ! 

Where can 1 Hee 
That thou wilt not await ? 

Fve wandered on 



224 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

A tear-stained way — 
Soul-strength is gone — 
Even strength to pray. 

Oh ! love, sweet love ! 
Thy loss now makes my soul sit dumb — 

It cannot move ! 
Grief-fettered prisoner ! it grows numb, 
And scarce can ache — 
Scarce feel its pain : 
Ah! now it wakes — 
It throbs again I 

Oh, world ! dark world ! 
Beneath heaven's star-gemmed banner blue, 

By God unfurled, 
Few eyes such tears look through 
As now dim mine ; 

I cannot see 

Its glory shine — 

God pity me ! 

Maicli, 1862. 



Spieit-bikd. 

The name Spirit-bird, 

Once a household word, 
Eings now but in memory's hall ; 

For exiled we roam 

From the bluff-bound home 
Where its echo was wont to fall. 

And the wild free ways 

Of my girlish days, 
While the grief-fountain slept unstirred, 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 225 

Have departed all, 

And beyond recall, 
And with them the name. Spirit-bird, 

Spirit- bird, 
And with them the name, Spirit-bird. 

I think of it now — 

Its musical flow 
From the lips of my early friend, 

And remember yet. 

That whene'er we met, 
That name with his kisses would blend ; 

No lover could frame 

A love-prompted name 
With any more beautiful word, 

And fondly I hold 

In my heart's safe fold 
This link to the past — Spirit-bird, 

Spirit-bird, 
This link to the past, Spirit-bird. 

Since romance is gone, 

And we are now one. 
Myself and the friend of those days, 

The beautiful name. 

Though ever the same. 
He speaks not in blame or in praise; 

But a dearer one 

From the old name drawn. 
For aftectionate use preferred. 

Has taken its place 

With an easy grace, — 
'Tis Birdie, and not Spirit-bird, 

Spirit-bird, 
'Tis Birdie, and not Spirit-bird. 

October 3d, 18G2. ][5 



226 SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Birdie. 

Speak to me, call me Birdie — 

Oh, let me hear to-night 
The name given in love's 'baptism — 

Name linked with lost delight. 
Say it in loving kindness, 

Murmur it in my ear — 
But speak it not to chide me 

For one unbidden tear. 

The lips that named me Birdie 

Are silent now to me ; 
Since they have learned the war-cry. 

The watch-word of the free. 
But it may be they wliisper 

Back to the soldier's heart 
The name they loved to call me 

Before we had to part. 

Then speak, and call me Birdie, 

It seems to bring Idm near; 
And when 1 feel his presence, 

It frees my heart of fear : 
It spans me with the rainbow 

That Hope knows how to form, 
By shining on my tear-rain, 

And gilding my heart's storm. 

Then speak, and call me Birdie, 
It wins back lost delight — 

My heart beats low to listen 
To that pet name to-night. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 227 

Poor heart ! 'tis near forgetting 

Its promise to be brave, 
Because of inly yearning 

To hear the name love gave. 

Laurel-street, Vineland, October 3d, 1862. 



A November Scene. 

The sky is draped in sombre gray, 
With here and there a silver ray ; 

But not a single thread of gold 

Is chain-stitched on a cloudy fold — 

Nor strip of azure softly braids 

Its brighter coloring with the shades. 

But folded in a dusky shroud 
Lies every sun-embroidered cloud ; 

And all the loveliness of day 
Looks through a double veil of gray. 

The winds among the boughs complain. 
And leaves come down like quiet rain, 

Falling with pensive, singing sound 

On the brown earth and grassy mound ; 

Shroudless and graveless there to lie, 
Beneath a dreary, sunless sky, 

Until November days have flown, 
And weird winds shriek in wilder tone. 



228 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

And then will come a wintry night, 
And the leaves will be laid out in white, 

As though the angels had drawn near, 
Casting on the uncovered bier 

Their own robes beautifully fair — 
Giving the dead a shroud to wear. 

Oh, falling leaves ! I call ye blest — 
Fair were your lives, and calm your rest. 

In the sweet spring-time were ye born. 
To breathe the fragrance of earth's morn. 

Ye drank the honey dews of June — 
Ye glistened 'neath the harvest moon; 

Ye whispered with the winds all day, 
And sung your summer lives away. 

Yq danced like graceful fairies' feet 
To his low love-tunes whistled sweet — 

And then ye robed yourselves anew 
In every gorgeous rainbow hue, 

And flung back gold beams to the sud, 
Blushing red for what ye had done. 

And when the wind grew wild and mad, 
And clouds were full of tears and sad, 

Ye faded to a plainer brown, 
And softly singing, fluttered down. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 229 

The spring, the summer, and the fall 
Ye saw, rejoicing in them all. 

And now, ye all imconscious rest. 
Low on the earth's green sodded breast, 

Til] winter's snow, and ice, and sleet 
Give your remains a winding sheet. 

Thus ye escape the darker days, 
Dying in the ]^ovember haze ; 

Going, like all the early dead, 
Away from woes the living dread. 

Le-wisburg, Pa. 



Idle Hours. 

Theee's no enjoyment 
In the employment 
Of killing time ; 
Such hours of leisure 
Are without pleasure, 
And dull life's prime. 

It makes one weary — 
It is so dreary 

With naught to do ; 
There's no refraining 
Froni sad complaining 

For something new. 

In thoughts regretful 
We grow forgetful 



230 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Of Time's true worth ; 
And we long for power, 
Each leaden-winged hour 

To kill at birth. 

If we were using, 
And not abusing 

Time's golden gift, 
Each moment precious, 
Short and delicious, 

Would jfly too swift. 

But moments wasted 
Are joys untasted — 

Joys cast away — 
With the past hurried 
Off to be buried — 

Lost, lost for aye ! 

Then comes a season, 
When, with sad reason. 

For Time we pray ; 
Making petition 
For short addition 

To life's spent day. 

Then recollection. 
And deep reflection. 

Convict of crime ; 
But no petition 
In such condition 

Can bring back Time ! 

Bloomsburg, Pa. 



SONGS OF TPIE HEART. 231 



The Passing o' the Simmer. 

Ah ! lightsome simmer, passing fast, 

Wi' singing birds and blossoms, 
When a' your sunny hours are past, 

How'll fare wanrest fa' bosoms ? 
The last wild rose has bloomed and gane, 

Eound which the birds went humming 
Garnered is a' the yellow grain, 

And fa' ere long is coming. 

Ah! perfumed simmer ! passing swift 

Owre lea, brae, haugh, and highland, 
Ye weep ayont the changefu' lift, 

To gild some tropic island ; 
Ye tak frae every linn and howe 

The freshness and the fairness, 
And leave the bleak craft for the plough. 

And a' the yird in bareness. 

Ah, gleesome simmer ! passing on 

Ye heed na my cur murring, 
Na mair than idle winds be drawn 

To hear the partridge birring. 
Ye've ripened mony a golden bing, 

Ye've bearded a' the barley, 
Ye've shed down dews upon the ling 

And painted peach- cheeks rarely. 

Ah, blythesome simmer ! passing by. 
Let the last hours gae hoolie — 

Keep green the woods wi' emerald dye, 
Crown a' the knowes wi' holly; 



232 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Alake! ye winna grant the prayer — 
Ye may na keep earth hloomy ; 

And we maun mak our mind to bear 
Earth's looks when they be gloomy. 

Hawthornden, August 14th, 1862. 



Autumnal Musings. 

Oh ! for the autumns when 
I used to wander with untrammelled will 

Adown the clilf-walled glen. 
Whistling soft answers to the wild-birds' trill, 
Or sailing leaf-boats on the rippling rill, 

"Where no keen eye might ken 
The work that kept me on the bank so still ; 
A work I did not do sweet time to kill, 

For time was light-winged then. 

But then my warm heart kept an open door 

To let small pleasures in, 
And nothing Nature had seemed mean or poor 
Whether in blossomy vale or bleaker moor, 

But all to me were kin ; 
All had a loveliness, my heart was sure, 
Would to the autumn-time of life endure, 

A joy unmixed with sin. 

Still in the rainbow wood 
My soul deliglits to cast away sad care — 

To dream, until imbued 
With the free fancies beautifully rare 
That Nature woos a kindred mind to share : 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 233 

I go to be indued 
Afresh with thoughts born but in autumn air ; 
I go, amid its glorious decay 
The litany it teaches me to say — 
The prayer it mutely offers up to pray, 
That I may tread life's hope-strewn way 

With worldliness subdued. 

But something now I lack ; 
A nameless tint I ever used to see 

That neutralized the black — 
Invisible to some, but plain to me ; 
This brighter dye, that glorified each tree, 

Dims 'neath the cloudy rack 
That spots so much more now the heavenly sea 
Than in the autumn days that used to be. 
When peace and hope and pleasantness, with me, 

Walked in the leafy track. 

Vines round the trees are tressed 
The same as in the Illinoisan wood, 

And virent mosses rest 
Where otherwise the soil were dark and nude ; 
Between the stops of stillness, that do brood 
As if earth held her breath, an interlude 
Of airy tunes breaks up the quietude 

That almost had oppressed. 

All outwardly the same ; 
But now my soul looks through a cloudy veil 

Upon the woods a-flame ; 
The russet, gold, and purple seem to fade, — 
The brilliant orange wears a duskier shade, 
Than in the wild frescades where once I played ; 



234 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Yet not to Nature are these changes laid — 
Myself must bear the blame. 

World! open now anew 
Life's sylvan vista to my unveiled view ; 

Open my blinded eyes, 
And grant to them once more the rich surprise 
Of old-time pictures in each pristine hue — 
Flame-color, tyrian-tint, gold, brown, and blue, 

Painting the earth and skies. 

Ah me ! for worse than naught 
Have I bowed low beneath griefs chastening rod, 

If I, in faith, ask aught 
Like tills of earth, instead of asking God ; 
'Twould be untreading all the path I've trod, 
Reburying hopes that died upon the road, 
Revisiting each grave's low sunken sod. 
Oh, world ! henceforth my spirit shall be taught 
By One too lately known, too long unsought ; 

I'll stray no more abroad, 

Sinking beneath my load. 
Since He my freedom from the world has bought. 

October 23d, 1862. 



In the Daek. 

It is dreadful, so dreadful to be in the dark. 
When my heart and I are left sadly alone ; 

With my heart, a cage empty — I, trying to hark 
For some note from the lost bird of hope that has 
flown. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 235 

Jt is pitifal, pitiful, left in the dark 

All alone, this poor desolate heart and I, 

Expecting a day-dawn, when hope, like a lark, 
Will be singing far off from my life's cloudy sky. 

It is terrible, terrible, here in the dark; 

The gray wings of morning seem folded far off; 
In God's book of the sky there's no star for a mark — 

(One text from its pages might comfort enough.) 

Yet 'tis pleasant, so pleasant to feel in the dark 
A strong hand compassionate clasping my own ; 

A hand in whose palm there is printed a mark 
That will lead me up safe to my bird that has 
flown. 

Cushion Mocntain, August 5th, 1864. 



Chiming Bells. 

[Written while the vesper bells were chiming, in St. Louis, 
the evening of Ember-day, December 16th, 1850.] 

How sweet to hear that solemn chime 

Filling with music all the air. 
As if it came from heaven's clime, 

Calling away to worship there ! 
Sweetly it falls upon the ear, 

As first it breaks the stillness round : 
I pause — I gently turn to hear 

The music in the deep-toned sound. 

Long after it has died away 

Upon the clear cold air of night, 



236 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

And stars unite their silvery rays 

With Lima's beams of mellow light — 

The last faint echo of each chime 
Comes like the memory of a dream, 

In wandering thoughts at even-tide, 
When things unreal, real seem. 



I HAVE BEEN WHEEE JeSUS WAS." 

" Should it rend some fond connection, 

Should I suffer shame or loss, 

Yet the fragrant, blest reflection, 

I have been where Jesus was. 

Will revive me 

"When I faint beneath the cross." 

The world may laugh to hear me speak 

The Saviour's lovely name, 
And say it was excitement's touch 

That kindled up the flame — 
And that the hour will come again, 

When, in my wayward heart, 
His name will wake no thought of love- 

His image bear no part. 

They may believe I made these vows 

In an unthinking hour. 
And say my Father will not guide 

My spirit by His power ; 
That He will never give me strength 

My ])romises to keep, 
But unsupported, leave me yet 

In misery to weep. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 2oT 

But when they speak these saddening words, 

And I begin to feel 
That over His love-lighted face 

Shadows maj sometimes steal — 
I'll call to mind the solemn night 

When tremblingly I trod 
The path I knew was hallowed once 

By Christ, the Son of God. 

How calndy flowed around me then 

The pure and peaceful wave, 
When low my youthful form was laid 

Within the liquid grave ! 
'Twas then I hoped — was it in vain ? — 

That every thought of mine 
Should breathe this prayer, " Oh ! let me have 

No will, O God, but thine." 

Yes, I have been where Jesus was, 

'Neath the baptismal wave ! 
I've felt the pure life giving thrill 

Of happiness it gave. 
My Saviour stood before the throne 

When those baptismal words 
Ascended to that glorious home, 

By saints and angels heard. 

I seemed to feel His mighty arm 

In love around me thrown, 
And seemed to hear a voice proclaim, 

" Henceforth thou art My own." 
His own ! what had I then to fear. 

In that dear hour of bliss, 
When Jesus made my spirit strong, 

And whispered I was His ? 



238 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

My Saviour, when assailing doubts 

Against my faint heart come, 
Let me but hear " a still small voice" 

Speak from the heavenly home ; 
And every stormy, troubled v^-ave 

Will then be lulled to rest, 
And I shall seem again to lie 

In safety on Thy breast. 

St. Louis, 1853. 



Morning Peayer in School. 

Lightly the tread of girlish feet 

Along the hall is heard, 
And glances bright and happy tones 

Make musical each w^ord. 

But soon a pleasant shade of thought 

Steals over every face, 
And gay, and arch, and smiling looks 

To graver ones give place. 

For when the Bible is unclasped, 
The morning lesson given, 

Into the thoughtless hearts come then 
Eemembrances of heaven. 

"We almost feel that angel-breath 

Has purified the air. 
And laden it with balm to steal 

Our childish grief and care. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 239 

Few troubles yet have crossed onr hearts, 
Few tears have dimmed our sight — 

Still fresh upon each rosy lip 
Sit smiles of sweet delight. 

The full cup is untasted yet — 

The cup of this world's woe — 
And we have known no grief so deep 

That tears refuse to flow. 

We do not know enough of care, 

While life's spring flowers still bloom, 

To teach our hearts how great their need 
To seek a heavenly home. 

Bright girlhood soon must pass away — 

These happy days will seem, 
When memory sometimes brhigs them back, 

Only a summer dream. 

Ah ! dark Mill be those after years, 

Without Arm faith in God, 
To lead us in the darkest hour 

To kiss the chastening rod. 

Then ere we mingle in the world, 

And feel our hearts grow old. 
Oh ! let us find the narrow road 

That le4ids to Jesus' fold. 

Then strong temptation will not find 

Our souls without a shield. 
And firm will be the voice within 

Urging us not to yield. 

Si. Louis, 1853. 



240 SONGS OF THE HEART. 



To Emily. 

"We were in E.'sroora. I was walking up and down the room, 
thinking. It was a babit. The gay conversation was ended 
among the girls by an abrupt exclamation — 

"Anna, did Jesus do that way? You wish to follow His ex- 
ample— is that like Him V 

I stopped in surprise. 

"Forgive me," cried the thoughtless girl, "and write something 
for me to make me remember, and 1 will never speak so again." 

This was the reply: — 

Dp:ae Emily, your careless words 
With pain have touched my heart, 

For they reveal how far yowr path 
From Jesus lies apart. 

He did, indeed, life's pathway tread 

With weary, dusty feet : 
The purpose of his pilgrimage 

Should make its memory sweet. 

He came to mark a heavenward track 

For wandering human feet, 
Who lose their way in mazes dark 

Down life's bewildering street. 

And as he walked, he turned to heal 

The lowliest in distress : 
Oh ! who could fail to follow him, 

And in his footsteps press? 

Would you not feel for such a friend 

A love intense and deep ? 
Would a command laid down by him 

Seem ditficult to keej) ? 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 241 

Oh ! Emily, this Jesus does 

As much for me — for you — 
Yet you disdain to ask in turn, 

" What wilt thou have me do?" 

For you he trod the paths of earth, 

Heedful of suffering's cry; 
His feet ascended Calvary 

That you might never die! 

This, this is why my heart is pained — 

Oh ! pain it not again, 
But come ! clasp hands and walk with me 

The path Christ made us then ! 



St. Louis, 1853. 



On the Kuins of De. Bullaed's Chuech. 

The merry sunshine of the spring 

Its gay and mocking smiles 
Upon the fallen ruin flings, 

And dances down the aisles. 

Through windows richly carved and stained 

The light once struggled in. 
But freedom it has now obtained 

To flood the chapel dim. 

On that once consecrated spot 

Many a solemn scene 
Has passed that may not he forgot, 

Though long years intervene. 
1(5 



242 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

How many in their early youth 
There told, in faltering tones, 

Their faith in God's eternal truth, 
Their hope to be his own ! 

How oft has been recounted there 
The strange, affecting tale, 

How Jesus died in grief and care — 
How rent the temple's veil ! 

But all is passed ; they go elsewhere ; 

And the old ruin lies 
Exposed alike to day's broad glare, 

Or tears from cloudy skies. 

The well-known hymns in solemn notes 
The last time have been sung, 

And there, henceforth, no music floats 
From any human tongue. 

Farewell, thou fallen church, farewell ! 

And in the choir above 
May all those voices richly swell 

In songs of Jesus' love. 

St. Louis, 1853. 



Singing in Heaven. 

[To a teacher who said, those who could not sing upon earth must 
be also silent in heaven.] 

Oh ! can it be that there are saints 

Among the choir above, 
Whose voices join not in the song 

Of Christ's redeeming love I 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 243 

How can they hear the heavenly strains 

Sweetly around them float, 
And feel the music in their hearts, 

And yet not sing a note ? 

How can they see the angel hand 

Strike every golden lyre, 
Without enkindling in their souls 

The same ecstatic fire ? 

How can they stand amid the throng 
With sweet-toned harps of gold, 

Nor wake a strain to praise the Lamb 
Who brought them to his fold ? 

Oh, no ! the voice that never sung 

On earth a note of praise, 
Will join the happy choir above, 

And sing their sweetest lays. 

St. Louis, 1853. 



I AM TEOUBLED. 
Psalm XXX. 6. 

I AM troubled, sorely troubled. 
And my soul can find no rest — 

Tossed by tempest, I am going 
Down the stream of life, unblest. 

Darkest thoughts my bosom fill — 

No voice whispers, " Peace, be still." 

I am troubled, deeply troubled, 
I go mourning all the day ; 



244 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

I look up — the sky is clouded — 

I can see no glad sun-ray. 
Smiles of light ! ah ! there are none 
For a poor, unpardoned one ! 

I am troubled, sadly troubled — 
My sick soul is sinking down, 

And my strength of heart is failing 
Fast beneath God's angry frown. 

Faith and courage have I none — 

I am wretched and undone. 

I am troubled, I am troubled — 
This is my unchanging theme, 
And it seems to come forever 

In the place of prayer and hymn- 
Waking me at early dawn, 
Mocking me when day is gone. 

I am troubled, ever troubled ; 

Even when I try to pray, 
Something to my spirit whispers 

That the Lord is far away — 
Filling me with dreadful fear 
That my prayer he will not hear. 

I am troubled, greatly troubled, 
Sore discouraged and oppressed ; 

If the Lord will not accept me. 
Whither shall I go for rest? 

If He will not hear my prayer, 

Who will hear me — who else care ? 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 245 

I am troubled, I am troubled — 
I am groping like one blind, 

For the blessed light is hidden 
From my dark, bewildered mind. 

Oh ! that I could come aright 

Out of darkness into light ! 

Lewisbuug, Pa., Feb., 1S60. 



A Prayer. 

Fathee in Heaven, 
Pity thy child ! 

Look in compassion, 
Tender and mild. 

My bark is driven 
Far out at sea — 

There is no beacon 
Shining for me. 

If it is shining 
/ see no light — 

Angry waves heaving 
Shut out the sight. 

Is there no haven 
Where I may lie 

Till the fierce tempest 
Passes me by ? 

Oh! Saviour, forgive! 
Hear me, I pray — 



246 SONGS OF THE HEART, 

Pardon ! oh, pardon ! 
Turn not away. 

Come in the tempest, 
Come to me now — 

Give for mj beacon 
Light on thy brow ! 

Make mj bark steady — 
Calm down the sea — 

Tell me thou lovest 
Me, even me. 

Give me true courage — 
Give me pure joy 

That earthly sorrow 
Cannot destroy. 

Give the assurance 
That thou wilt save — 

Let me not perish 
Under death's wave. 

February, I860. 



I KNOW NOT HOW TO DIE. 

[Suggested by the " Fatal Mistake," published in the New York 
Ledger.'l 

I KNOW not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die ; 
The way seems very dark, mother, 

The light fades from the sky. 
I am very fearful, mother, 



SONGS OF THE HEART, 24t 

I dread to leave you so — 
Oh ! take my hand in yours, mother, 
You must not let me go. 

I know not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die : 
You never talked of death, mother ; 

Why did you not — oh ! why ? 
You never taught me this, mother. 

And I had felt no fear 
That death would come to me, mother, 

This glad and happy year, 

I know not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die ; 
And there's no time to learn, mother, 

For death is drawing nigh. 
I cannot now prepare, mother, 

You never told me aught 
Of the robe I must wear, mother — 

Oh, why was I not taught ? 

I know not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die ; 
You've talked of the future, mother, 

But not of eternity. 
You have loved me, dearest mother, 

From the hour of my birth. 
But it cannot save me, mother — 

It was the love of earth. 

I know not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die ; 
You did not teach me this, mother : 

Speak to rae — tell me why? 



248 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

You told me of the world, mother, 

Of happiness and love. 
But never of Jesus, mother, 

Or of a home above. 

I know not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die ; 
You saw not the danger, mother, 

You knew not death was nigh. 
You did not pray for me, mother. 

You did not say repent. 
And now into my heart, mother, 

Death's arrow has been sent. 

I know not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die ; 
The way is dark and drear, mother, 

The light fades from the sky ; 
Yes, it is fading fast, mother. 

The cheerful sunlight here. 
And I am growing cold, mother, - 

Dying in dread and fear. 

I know not how to die, mother, 

I know not how to die ; 
But I am sinking down, mother, 

Deep shadows round me lie : 
Oh, I am dying now, mother. 

Dying in such dark dread — 
Mournfully going down, mother, 

Among the early dead. 

Lewieburg, 1860. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 249 



"Waye-woen. 

A SPRING wells up beneath a hill, 
And from it flows a silvery rill, 

"Where years ago I used to float 
Upon its breast nay mimic boat. 

It then was but a shining belt 

On which the sunshine seemed to melt; 

A pearly ribbon, sweetly laid 
In graceful folds upon the glade. 

But years have passed, and day by day 
The waves have worn the banks away, 

And mingled with their azure tide 
The sod they washed from either side. 

They've worn away the grassy seat — 
They lave the path wherein my feet 

Left their small print at close of day, 
Pressed in soft moss, or sunk in clay. 

Wee wavelets they, and small the rill — 
A silver knife that cut the hill : 

Yet they have slowly, one by one, 
Fretted and worn the very stone. 



250 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

And thus the waves of many ills 

Flow round the soul from life's dark rills — 



And thus, since ever thought was born, 
By waves of woe 'twas tossed and worn. 

And though, unto the human eye, 
Life's river rolls serenely by, 

There is an under-current deep — 
Forever troubled — ne'er asleep. 

These barks can stem the storm awdiile, 
That beat against them every mile ; 

But their soul-freight will chafe and fret, 
Impatient till life's sun is set, — 

Until, wave-stained, wave-rocked and worn, 
They near their " dark mysterious bourne," 

And from all earthly fetters free 
Launch into wide eternity. 

How dark the fate of such a soul, 

If, when it reaches death's black goal, 

It launches in the troubled tide, 

Without the Christian's heaven-sent guide — 

On, on, to drift, wave-rocked and tossed, 
Wrecked in the gulf of woe, and lost! 

IjKWIsborg, December, 1860. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 251 



Saved. 

A WANDERING soiil was Gilt at sea — 
Breakers were surging fearfully, 
And winds were wailing loud. 

Frail was the bark, and rent the sail, 
As, driven before the furious gale. 
Its foamy furrows ploughed. 

'Twas night, and all the sky was black — 
No beacon beamed upon the track — 
No rift was in the cloud. 

Adrift on the unfathomed deep, 
Each onward surge a fatal leap — 
To death the doomed soul bowed. 

The salt brine laved the helpless feet — 

The death- struck heart but feebly beat — 

Foam wove the wanderer's shroud. 

Then out upon the surgy sea, 
A life-boat launched forth fearlessly, 
And on the mad waves rode. 

Upon the wide waste, but a speck. 
Trembled the shattered human wreck, 
Alive, within a shroud. 

The lost one heard the dipping oar, 
And shrieked, till echoes from the shore 
Back bounded to him, loud. 



252 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

A cheering voice, then at his side, 

To the wild wail for help, replied, 

" Come in my boat with me." 

The castaway, in doubt and fear, 
Cried out, "Thy boat ! it is not near! 
I cannot go with thee." 

The tempest wailed a wilder dirge — 
The bark was sinking in the surge — 
Still urged the voice to flee ! 

" Take me ashore in my own boat — 
'Tis strong enough, thus far, to float — 
And yours, I cannot see. 

" I fear to take so mad a leap. 
Over the dark and treacherous deep — 
'Twould sink me in the sea." 

Thus in the sinking boat he stayed, 
And his salvation long delayed. 
Though it was ofiered free. 

But on eternity's dark brink. 
He saw, at last, that he must sink, 
Or in the life-boat flee. 

Then the poor self-abandoned waif 
Gave himself up, and went home safe, 
Saviour of souls, with Thee ! 

WiLLiAMSPORT, September, 1861. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 253 



The Prison Daisy. 

(" Our matron was once looking throngh the inspection hole of a 
cell, and perceived the inmate with her elbows on the table, gazing 
on a daisy. The wistful look of that woman at her prize was a 
gleam of as true sentiment as ever breathed in a poet's lines. 

" The woman wept at last, dropping her head on the table be- 
tween her hands, and shed her bitter tears silently. * * ' Six 
months after, I saw ihat flower pressed between the leaves of her 
Bible.'"— /iSa^. Ev. Post, Bee, 1S62. Art., " Female Life in Prison.") 

The convict sat with folded hands, 

Her dark eyes dim and hazy, 
For through the Millbank prison bands 

Had come to her a daisy. 

With wistful gaze she bent above 
The flower of all most common, 

But which possessed a charm to move 
The heart of fallen woman. 

Ruined, repulsive, coarse, and rude, 
"What change the flower efiected! 

The " old time," in the tender mood. 
Was freshly recollected. 

It mutely told of happier times — 
Of innocence — of childhood — 

Back, back, beyond the bridge of crime. 
Youth's green and flowery wildwood. 

It spoke of flelds she used to cross, 
Where daisy eyes were glistening — 

A mother's grave, where, mid the moss, 
Her prayers they lay a-listening. 



254 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Poor erring one ! the tangled wild 
Her feet had long been threading 

Led through a labyrinth defiled, 
That there seemed no nntreading. 

But gazing on the prison flower, 

Her sinless years recalling, 
The crime-stained heart in that strange hour 

Christ's love was disenthralling. 

God's Spirit took the lowly guise — 

God's eye looked through the blossom — 

Taking his lost child by surprise 
Back to his pitying bosom. 

Months after, in her Bible pressed, 

The faded flower-angel 
Was still the Millbank prison guest, 

The teacher, the evangel. 

ViNELAND, N. J., Dec, 1862. 



Laus Deo. 

The wide world is the temple of the Lord, 
And N'ature's voices constitute its choir ; 

Birds, brooks, and breezes, with a sweet accord, 
Echo the hymnings of the heaven-tuned lyre. 

They call to matins at the early dawn — 
To vespers at the sinking of the sun. 

And human hearts, though worldly, yet are drawn 
To yield faint praise to Him, the Holy One. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 255 

Thej, the sweet soulless singers, do outdo 
Man, who in God^s own image God did form. 

And though no part immortal, their praise true 
Like incense rises from earth's altar, warm. 

Soul-gifted man ! akin to the divine — 

Earth's king, and sceptered with a cunning arm, 

Yet his least subjects to give praise incline, 
While he, the God-like, grovels like a worm. 

August, 1862. 



My Name. 

If the cloudless clime of heaven 

Ever is my happy home, 
May the waiting band of angels 

Speak my own name when I come. 
May no other name be given 

Than the one I bear on earth. 
Dear to me because my mother 

Gave it to me at my birth. 

True, it sometimes has been spoken 

In the tones of angry hate. 
But that will be all forgiven 

When I reach the pearly gate, 
Naught in that world is remembered 

That can mar our perfect bliss. 
And I love to think they'll greet me 

By the name I knew in this. 

Name repeated by young brothers, 
First among the household words, 



256 SONGS OF THE HEART. 

When they fluttered in the home-nest 
Like a brood of singing birds. 

Name engraven on the tablets 
Of a loving husband's heart — 

Oh ! then must I hear it never 
When from earth I shall depart ? 

Kame endeared to me forever, 

Eendered musical by love — 
Whispered softly by the dying, 

As they passed to realms above — 
Lingering on their lips half uttered, 

When the seal of death was set, 
Giving it a sacred meaning 

That my soul may not forget. 

At the final resurrection. 

When I take again this frame, 
It will then be made immortal, — 

So might be my earthly name ; 
Purified from spot or blemish. 

Freed from all of sin and shame. 
Rendered beautiful and holy — 

Greatly changed, yet still the same. 

LEWISB0EG, Pa. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 



DEDICATED 

TO ALICE AND LILLIAN, 

FOR WHOM THEY WERE ORIGINALLY WRITTEN. 



Deaeie. 



Come sit beside me, dearie, 

The pleasant morning light 
Is changing into diamonds 

The crystal tears of night ; 
The roses are unfolding, 

With many blushes bright — 
Happy birds are carolling 

Their songs of wild delight. 

Then sit beside me, dearie, 

And the fresh morning air 
Shall gently kiss your forehead, 

And wave your nut-brown hair; 
And sunbeams clear and golden 

Shall form a circlet fair, 
Brighter than the coronets 

That queenly heads oft wear. 
17 



258 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

Then sit beside me, dearie, 

And listen to me yet, 
And calm yonr restless spirit, 

My wayward little pet ; 
The beauty of the morning 

Has made my heart forget 
Sorrows that, in the darkness, 

Make my eyes dim and wet. 

Then sit beside me, dearie, 

A little longer stay — 
Know you, my child, how lonely 

I feel when you're away ? 
Think you the light so golden 

Would seem to me so gay, 
If you were not beside me, 

My little Allie May ? 

Sit close beside me, dearie, 

And lay within my oAvn 
That hand the sun's been kissing 

Until it is so brown. 
Ah, now you have unclasped it, 

And you are slipping down — 
Out in the dew and sunshine 

My Allie May is gone ! 

June 16th, 1860. 



The Little Ked Shoe. 

Teae-blinded, faint-hearted, 
In sorrow we parted, 
At set of Sim. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 259 

The long clay had wasted, 

And our worn feet hasted 

Ere night begun. 

Then mother sat weeping, 
While shadows were creeping 

Into the room ; 
Oppressed with her sorrow — 
Believing no morrow 

Could chase the gloom. 

Sweet home of the valley ! 
Birth-place of our AUie — 

She was its light. 
So when they had given 
The last kiss that even, 

Fast fell the night. 

The little dress spotted, 
And all over dotted 

Crimson and gold. 
Was tenderly taken, 
And lovingly shaken 

Smooth in each fold. 

A shoe, lost in straying 
Too far, in her playing, 

Out doors had lain. 
Till the autumn weather 
On its crimson leather 

Left mould and stain. 

Though rain had defaced it, 
Her boy-uncle placed it 
Over his heart; 



260 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONE^. 

Her wee foot had worn it — 
Her own foot had torn it — 
They could not part. 

Then far from the valley, 
First home of our Allie, 
Wandered they all; 
In sorrow departing, 

Eekictantly starting, 
Late in the fall. 

Long after we sought them — 
Their child-love we brought them, 

Though not alone. 
The heart of our mother 
Received yet another 

Beautiful one — 

Whose smile was as winning, 
And heart free from sinning, 

And face as fair; 
So love first withholden, 
Like light warm and golden, 

Beamed on her there. 

Beloved little spirit ! 
She came to inherit 

Every thing there ; 
The dress crimson spotted, 
The dress golden dotted, 

Came into wear. 

E'en the shoe long cherished, 
Stained, worn, and half perished, 
Kept with fond care, 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 261 

To our Lily was given, 
When a summer even 
One foot was bare. 

Red shoe and white stocking 
(After hours of looking) 

Never were traced) — 
So the tiny treasure, 
Sweet source of past pleasure, 

The last, replaced. 

December 30th, 1S60. 



Allie and Lillie. 

My Allie, my fairy, fashioned so slight. 
Gracefully, airily stepping so light. 
Springing and dancing from morning till night. 
Gone ! while you think she is still in your sight. 

My Lillie, my baby, so plump and fair. 
With silky tresses of sunny brown hair, 
And dazzling glimpses of white shoulders bare. 
Rising above every dress she can wear. 

My Allie, my gipsy, with curls of brown, 
Coquettishly dancing and rippling down. 
Shading her forehead, or hiding a frown, 
Then floating far back, by the wild wind blown. 

Lillie, my sunbeam, the ever bright ray 
That lights up for me the gloomiest day, 
Gliding around in sweet frolic and play, 
Beautiful, innocent, loving, and gay. 



262 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

^\y Allie, my birdling, floating about, 
At ray side nestling, again to tly out. 
Lingering to chirp of some queer little thought. 
Then flying away with a song and a shout. 

My Lillie, my pet, so winning and sweet, 
Unevenly stepping, loved ones to meet. 
Though they have only been out in the street — 
Eagerly stepping, dear, dear little feet. 

My heart tells me oft I cannot decide 
Which I love best, or regard with most pride : 
The elf from my kisses trying to hide, 
Or the sunbeam that's shining at my side. 



Geandfathee's Daeling. 

[Suggested by a picture.] 

Geandfathee's darling ! 

Grandfather's pride! 
Ah ! little smiler, 

Dimples can't hide ! 
This morning's sunshine 

Your face reflects, — 
Been in some mischief, 

Grandpa suspects. 

Very demurely 

Those fingers fold, 

But / know, darling, 

Your ways of old. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 263 

What are you telling? 

Been out at play, 
Pulling red roses 

To throw away ? 

Ah ! little darling, 

I saw you go — 
Grandpa was watching, 

Didn't you know? 
"What are you hiding 

There in your dress ? 
Tore it a little, 

Can't you confess? 

Now what will mother 

Say to my pet ? 
Shall grandpa ask her 

Please to forget ? 
Say, little darling, 

What can we do — 
Don't my pretty one 

Wish she could sew? 

There ! mother's calling, 

Baby is up ; 
See ! she is drinking 

Out of your cup ! 
Breakfast is ready ; 

Come, we must go, 
And this misfortune 

Mother must know. 

Now the locks golden 

Half out of braid, 
Grandfather's fingers 

Smoother have laid ; 



264 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

And the white apron 
Hides the torn dress — 

Where the sad rent is, 
Mother can't guess. 

Lewisburg, January 3d, 1861. 



He's Coiming. 

[Suggested by an engraving, representing a young mother sitting 
on a rude seat beside her cottage door, with her babe asleep, its 
head resting on her hip, and its bare feet upon the bench. The 
young wife awaits the coming of her husband.] 

Sleep ! baby, sleep ! 
Eest those dimpled fairy feet 
On the bare, brown, rustic seat, 
While the weary little head 
Showers its silken golden thread 
On a softer, warmer bed — 

Sleep ! baby, sleep ! 

Rest ! baby, rest ! 
'Tis my prettiest muslin dress 
That your peachy cheek doth press, 
But those precious rings of gold — 
Moist with night-dews half unrolled — 
Hiding in each airy fold — 
Cannot fade its azure hue : 
Close then, pet, those eyes of blue, 

Sleep! baby, sleep! 

Sleep ! baby, sleep ! 
While I silent sit and look 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 265 

Far across the moonlit brook — 
O'er the meadows — np the hill — 
On the pathway to the mill, 
Close beside yon rippling rill — 
Sleep ! baby, sleep ! 

Rest! baby, rest! 
Eyes so bright must not grow dim, 
I must watch alone for him ; 
'Tis not yet your weary fate 
Thus at even-tide to wait. 
Like a lone dove for its mate. 
Sleep ! then, precious darling, sleep ! 
"While my lonesome watch I keep. 

Sleep ! sioeetly sleep ! 

Wake ! baby, wake ! 
You must share my brighter fate ! 
He is almost at the gate ! 
Raise that pretty gold-crowned head 
From its low uncurtained bed. 
Listen to the well-known tread ! 

Wake ! baby, wake ! 

Wake ! baby, wake I 
Let the silken fringes rise 
That now veil those starry eyes ; 
I would have their tender light, 
Ever radiant, ever bright, 
On your father shine to-night. 
He is coming — drawing near — 
Coming ! coming I almost here ! 

Wake ! baby, wake ! 

Lewisbukg, Jan. 4th, 186L 



266 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 



Bonnie Winnie. 

Bonnie wee Winnie ! 

Light o' the hame ! 
Wi' love's kindlin' fire 

My heart's a-flame. 

Sonsie wee Winnie ! 

Oantie and gay ! 
Blinkin' sae bonnie — 

Standing abeigh. 

Bonnie wee Winnie ! 

Gie us a gift ! 
Smile like a sun-ray 

Frae the blue lift! 

Charming wee Winnie I 
Wi' een sae blue ! 

Nae flower o' simmer 
Compares wi' you ! 

Bonnie wee Winnie ! 

Jewel o' mine ! 
Aft my heart's osie 

Lest thee I tine ! 

February, lOlh, 1861. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 26*1 



To Anna Makgaeet. 

Though I may not meet thee, 
With kisses to greet thee, 

Fair little one ! 
This welcome I send thee, 
With love to attend thee, 

Till life is done. 

Anna Margaret^ they name thee. 
But / dare not claim thee, 

Namesake of mine — 
For I'll not deceive thee — 
Naught have I to give thee — 

Naught, save this rhyme. 

Still, though I have told thee 
I may not behold thee 

Now at life's dawn, 
r neither forget thee^ 
Nor those who will pet thee 

When I am gone. 

May Heaven watch o'er thee — 
May the way before thee. 

With flowers be strewn; 
But if sharp thorns tear thee, 
May it be but to bear thee 

Near to God's throne. 

Whate'er shall betide thee — 
Whate'er is denied thee, 
Or kindly given. 



268 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES 

May it all, all guide thee, 
When God shall have tried thee, 
At last — to heaven. 

Lewisburg, March 31st, I86L 



ACKOSTIC. 



Alltk is a sweet sun-ray, 
Lighting up each cloudy day : 
Is there, can there he a fay 
Caught hy mortals in life's way, 
Even half as winning — say? 

Smiles of sunrise in the May 
Prettier could not he, than play 
All about her face so gay, 
Up to where her lashes lay. 
Like the shadows soft and gray 
Daylight chases fast away. 
Is there any child, I say, 
Near as sweet as Alice May, 
Graceful as a wild- wood fay ? 



Leaf fkom a Little Life. 

South-westward, in a wild, bluff-guarded vale, 
Where the broad Mississippi grandly glides, 
A cabin, built upon the hunter's trail, 
Long since deserted, in seclusion hides. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 269 

The winding bugle once made glad those hills ; 

The hunted deer 
With fleet hound crossed the little singing rills 

With her pursuers near. 

And other little feet 
Light as the pretty fawn's, and scarce less fleet, 
Made tracks in the long grass, and in the clay, 

By the blue run 

Where pearly pebbles lay. 
Gleaming, through all the beautiful calm day. 
In the warm glances of the ardent sun. 
There loved the fawn-like little feet to stray. 
Sometimes beyond the range of mother-eyes. 
To see the wavelets tremble, as with fright, 
When the poor panting doe, in her wild flight. 

Crazed with the hunter's cries. 
Plunged through to seek for safety, far away. 

Within the cabin, with a weary tread, 
A gentle woman used to Avalk and spin : 
J Sad lines of care, 

Half hid in curling hair. 
Marked her sweet features, faded, worn, and thin. 
Meantime her busy heart spun different thread ; 
And she would smile, a dreary smile that said 
Heart-woven skeins were tangled in a knot 
That it had been her heaven-appointed lot 
To strive, in daily tasks, to lay out straight. 
Ah! weary, hopeless fate, 

When it seems toil in vain, 
And we must walk, with slow and fainting tread, 

A never-turning lane. 



210 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

But into her dark shadowy life God wove 

A goklen chain ; 
And spun for her a rainbow-tinted skein, 
Wherewith she might make many a sunny line, 

'Mid darker lines to shine : 
God gave her this, and surely God is love. 

Her gentle child, a fairy little girl, 

With earnest eyes, rnild and serenely blue, 

And fair cheeks tinted with a sea-shell hue. 

Set in a shining frame of golden curls, 

Became her world's undimmed, unsetting sun, 

The light by which her homeliest tasks were done. 

And with increasing beauty, day by day. 
The sweet child drew her mother's thoughts away, 
Until her spell-bound heart forgot, well-nigh. 
That earth holds for us each a sunless grave, 
And that, beyond death's dark and troubled wave, 
A radiant, God-lighted land doth lie. 

But many a thought 
With deepest meaning fraught. 
Dropped from the fair child's rose-leaf lips, like 
pearls. 

And round her baby-brow 
Circled a halo like the sunrise glow, 
A crown of glory, made of golden curls. 

The mysteries of our faith she pondered on, 

And in the cool blue run. 
With reverent air, her kitten was baptized. 
While she bestowed a blessing and a name. 
Henceforth she loved it, as a human heart — 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 271 

Taught it tlie pretty lessons that she knew, 

Gave it of every gift an equal part, 

And almost breathed a soul its being through. 



But one calm golden day 
The starry eyes dimmed in the dazzling sun ; 
The little teacher's self-set tasks were done— 
The gentle lips had dropped their last pure pearls, 

And turned to common clay, 
Crowned only with its beautiful pale curls, 
The mother's idol in Death's shadow lay. 

Then lifted she lier eyes. 
To look again beyond earth's changing skies 
To where the Banner of Love-light unfurls. 

A little grave was made, 
And the dumb favorite forsook the hearth. 
And patient watched beside the mound of earth 
Till months had lengthened into two lone years, 
And blue-eyed flowers had grown up in the tears 

The mourning mother shed, 
Together with fair golden cups, that crowned 
With a pale of glory all the darker ground 

Above the sleeper's head. 

The setting sun 

That marked the two years done. 
Saw loving hands take up the coffined child, 
And in a new and far-ofl:" place of rest 
Cross the white hands once more upon its breast, 
And thus, with hymn unsung and prayer unsaid, 
Give back again to earth the gentle dead. 



2t2 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

Back in the valley wild, 

Stars pitiful and mild 
Looked into the reopened grave, and shone 
On a dumb mourner lying there alone — 
Dying of grief that no expression found; 
And when the morning light the valley filled 
The heart that seemed so human, Death had stilled, 
And the loved grave was made its Lurial-niound. 

WiLLiAMSPORT, Pa., Dec. 11th, 186L 



Hetty Mabvyn; 

ou, THE governor's escape. 

The narrow path from the orchard 
Stopped at the side of the road, 

After crossing o'er the meadow, 

And the brook that through it flowed. 

And the forty yards of linen 
That across the plat did reach. 

Was beginning in the sunshine. 
And the dew of May, to bleach. 

By it sat the farm-child, Hetty, 

Near the road, and near the brook — 

In her hand a gourd-shell dipper — 
In her lap an open book. 

Now, up in the farm-house attic 
Hid the Governor of the State — 

A price had been set upon him. 
And the Tories lay in wait. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 213 

That day lie had been discovered, 

And hunted by Tory si)ies, 
Who gloried to help the English 

Capture a patriot prize. 

Hurrying across the meadow 

To Hetty, he quickly said, 
" My child, for life I am flying — 

There's a price set on my head ; 

" And if I am overtaken 

Before I reach my canoe, 
I am lost and ruined, Hetty ; 

There is nothing I can do. 

" You see here the road forks, Hetty, 

And I want to run this way, 
But you must say to the rascals 

Who are chasing me to-day, 

" That I've gone to catch the wagon 

That is coming with the mail, 
And then I shall reach tlie river 

Ere they discover my trail." 

But in sad distress cried Hetty, 

"Oh! I cannot tell a lie! 
And I wish you had not told me 

Which way you intend to fly." 

*' Hetty darling, you would surely 
Not to death a friend betray ? — 

Hark ! they come ! I hear their horses — 
Say I've gone the other way!" 
18 



2*14 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

"Heaven never blesses falsehood, 
And I dare not speak a lie ! 

But I will not tell them either. 
If they kill me, — so, now flj!" 

" That is not enough, dear Hetty — 
I must die, or you deceive — 

You're a child, and if you told them 
They would without doubt believe." 

"Cousin! cousin!" cried she quickly, 
" Get beneath my linen here, 

And I'll stand beside and sprinkle, 
When your enemies appear." 

"It's the only chance now, Hetty, 
And I'll get down, as you say" — 

So, beneath the web of linen, 
Straight upon the grass he lay. 

In the farm-house first they sought him, 

Then in anger rode away. 
Passing Hetty in the meadow, 

"Where the linen hid their prey. 

"■Child," the British captain questioned, 
" Did you see a man run by ?" 

"Yes, sir," said poor frightened Hetty, 
Longing in her heart to fly. 

" Which way?" sternly asked the soldier. 

"Sir, I promised not to say." 
"Then I'll make you," swore the captain ; 

" So be quick, and show tlie way." 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 2t5 

" But I said that if you killed me, 

I'd be brave and never tell," 
Sobbed the truthful little maiden, 

While her tears in showers fell. 

Then began a smooth-tongued Tory; 

"Let me speak to her," said he — 
"Are you little Hetty Marvyn?" 

" Yes, I'm Hetty, sir," said she. 

" Then it was your mother's cousin, 
Governor G , who went past here ? 

We are friends — so tell us, Hetty — 
Come ! you see you need not fear." 

" Cousin told me he was flying — 
That he ran his life to save" — 

" That's it, Hetty, now where is he ? 
We must help him, he's so brave." 

His smooth speech could not deceive her, 
But she answered in this way — 

" To his boat, down at the river, 
He must go, I heard him say. 

" And he wanted me to tell you 
That he went to catch the mail — 

Else he said that you would take him, 
And his plan for flight would fail." 

" Then why did you disobey him ?" 

Asked the leader of the spies : 
"'Twas a lie— I could not tell it," 

Hetty said with tearful eyes. 



2t6 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

"You're a good girl," said the Tory, 
"Not to tell what was untrue — 

When you said so to your cousin, 
What did he next say to you ?" 

"He said, 'Surely, little Hetty, 
You would not a friend betray' — 

And he begged me still to tell you 
He had gone the other way." 

"Then you promised," asked the Tory, 
"Not to tell which way he fled, 

Even if our men should kill you — 
Is that, Hetty, what you said ? 

" Well, you are a brave girl, Hetty : 

I suppose he told you so, 
And then started for the river 

Fast as ever he could go ?" 

" That I promised not to tell you," 
Little Hettie still did say. 

" Oh ! yes, I forgot ! but tell us 
His last words, and we'll away." 

"/(('^ the only chance now, Hetty, 
And Til get doion as you sayy 

That is all I have to tell you, 
It's the last he said to-day." 

If they rightly understood her, 
All was lost, poor Hetty knew, 

But she hoped the God of heaven 
Would reward her speaking true. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 2tt 

She was right, for quick they started, 

Dashing down the river trail, 
Just in time to see two boatmen 

Glide down stream with flying sail. 

They, supposing they had loitered 
Till the governor reached his men, 

Rode away in sullen anger, 
Each one to his home again. 

Long time after, when the governor 
Found once more a peaceful home. 

He took means to keep in memory 
Hetty's truth all time to come ; 

For he named his little daughter. 
Born while he was doomed to die. 

For the child whose truth preserved him 
"When for life he had to fly. 

ViNELAND, Aug., 1862. 



Thf Little Huguenot. 

(For the Children.) 

My story is of Normandy, 

Across the isle-gemmed English sea, 

A province of fair France, 
Where peasants grow the flax, flowered blue, 
Plant gardens in the sun and dew. 

Quaff wine, and sing and dance. 



2*18 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

A ISTorman farmer once had land, 
A-near the English Channel strand, 

A pleasant, peaceful spot, 
Only it was haunted by a fear 
Of threatened danger drawing near 

The fated Huguenot. 

The Norman's sons (he had but two) 
Were strong and manly, brave and true ; 

His wife an invalid ; 
But Magdalen, the hght of home, 
Shining in the ancestral room. 

The cloud of evil hid. 

The old farm horse, one summer day, 
Accoutred in his best array 

Of sheepskin colored blue, 
With worsted fringe of scarlet die. 
And wooden saddle peaked and high, 

Up to the horse-block drew. 

His master, slow with weight of years, 
Grave with his sixty winters' cares. 

Mounted to ride away. 
While Magdalen danced on the sod. 
Kissing her hand with many a nod 

And word of parting, gay. 

He rode away, thinking the ill 
Lay in the distant future, still — 

And thinking thus, had peace ; 
So journeyed on the poor old man, 
Beguiling time with some good plan. 

Home comforts to increase. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 219 

But entering in the small French town, 
He thought old faces, weather-brown, 

Seemed wrinkled with new care ; 
For like himself, farm-friends had come 
To buy, for winter meat at home, 

Fat cattle at the fair. 

But news of cruel Catholic deeds 
Effaced the thought of homely needs, 

In households that must part; 
And the poor Norman's horse bore back, 
Over the toilsome, hilly track, 

A broken. Christian heart. 

Himself and sons could give up all — 
Bearing whatever might befall. 

With courage, grace, and faith ; 
But the edict contained one clause 
That pierced his very soul, because 

On Magdalen fell its wrath. 

From that worst evil, he would brave 
All danger, if thereby he'd save 

His tender little one ; 
For should he suffer at the stake, 
The priests his Magdalen would take 

To be a Catholic nun. 

He hurried on ; home came in view — 
The stable-path his old horse knew — 

The father let him run ; 
So glad was he to hear a laugh. 
And see sweet Magdalen still safe, 

Playing out in the sui^. 



280 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

The Huguenot, with tears like rain, 
Told to his wife the tale of pain, 

Asking what should they do? 
She said, " From Granville, without fail, 
That night a fishing-smack would sail. 

And friends were of the crew. 

" They'd talked that day of their affairs. 
Of shipping apples and good pears 

To isles where failed the crop ; 
The captain was their sons' true friend — 
'Twere safe with Mm the child to send, 

And 'twas the only hope." . 

" But oh ! to part from all we prize — 
From liei\ the apple of our eyes !" 

The poor old father cried. 
" Marie, it drives my brain all wild ; 
Who is to take our precious child 

Upon the English side ?" 

" God will be father to her then. 
And give her back, perchance, again, 

If we from France can flee ; 
But if that cannot be God's will. 
She shall be trained for heaven still, 

And saved eternally. 

" Then haste, dear husband, give her up- 
. There's sweetness in the bitter cup — 

There's joy in duty done: 
Going, she keeps her Bible yet ; 
Staying, all good she must forget, 

And be a Catholic nun." 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 281 

The weary horse was brought once more, 
All ready to the farm-house door, 

And harnessed to the cart ; 
And if a Papist looked, he saw 
Only a mattress and some straw, 

But not the hidden heart. 

The mother gave her last caress — 
The father, with sad tenderness, 

Peeped where the child was hid. 
And stroked her cheek, and smoothed her hair, 
Laying his hardened hand with care 

The pretty curls amid. 

He took his flannel jacket oif. 

To make her cold feet warm enough, 

And gave her cakes to eat ; 
Striving such ways his grief to still. 
He bared his poor breast to night's chill, 

After the long day's heat. 

Safely he bore her to the boat — 
Safely he saw it set afloat 

Upon the channel tide. 
'• Bereaved of her, I am bereaved," 
Like aged Israel he grieved — 

Went home, to bed, and died. 

His lonely widow followed him. 
With Jesus, through the valley dim, 

Safe from the Papist's hand ; 
And Magdalen, their rescued one. 
Praised God beneath a milder sun, 

In England's safer land. 

October 20th, 18&3. 



282 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 



A Chkistmas Story. wJH^^. 

Now listen, little Alice, 

And baby AVinnifred, 
To this nice Christmas story 

Of what a good child did. 

Far away in Germany, 

A land beyond the sea, 
They have, for all good children, 

A tree, called " Christmas-tree." 

On Christmas evening, early, 
Before the clock strikes nine, 

The little waxen candles 

Among the green leaves shine. 

And there are many presents 

Of candies, cakes, and toys, 
Hanging upon the branches. 

For little girls and boys. 

Doll-babies in their cradles 

Eock on the Christmas-tree, 
And good things wrapped in papers, 

That you would like to see. 

Then every one is happy, 

And every face is bright. 
And all the smiling children 

Call it a pretty sight. 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 283 

But once in that old country 

There was a poor lone boy, 
Who got no Christmas presents, 

And never had a toy. 

And other little children 
Told him about their things, 

Brought by the Christmas Lady, 
All dressed in white with wings. 

So one day he sat thinking, 
Wondering what he could do. 

That on the coming Christmas 
Hemight be happy too. 

And while he thought and wondered, 

It came into his mind 
About the gentle Christ-child, 

Who was so good and kind. 

And so he wrote a letter, 
Asking for Christmas things, 

And said, " Dear Christ, please send them 
On the Christmas Lady's wings." 

He put it in the office. 

And never had a doubt 
But that the loving Christ-child 

Would surely take it out. 

But when the good postmaster 
Looked at the poor boy's note. 

Directed " To the Christ-child," 
He wondered what he wrote. 



284 LEAVES FOR TPIE LITTLE ONES. 



And laid it on a shelf, 
Saying that he would answer 
Tlie little boy himself. 

And true enough, that Christmas 
The poor child's heart was glad, 

For every thing he asked for 
On Christmas Eve he had. 

Because he loved the Saviour, 
And did his words believe, 

God made him very happy 
Upon that Christmas Eve. 

And though his little letter 
Could not to heaven go, 

Jesus knew what was in it, 
And would not answer "no." 

He made the kind postmaster 
Become the poor boy's friend ; 

And so 'twas really Jesus 
Who did the good gifts send. 

Christmas Eve. 



Cheistmas Eve. 

On Christmas Eve, full fifteen years ago. 
The Yule-logs lighted with a ruddy glow 

The pine-floored kitchen of a prairie home ; 
r)ack to the farthest comer of the room 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 285 

Fled the sad shadows from the laughing light — 
Unbidden guests were they on Christmas night. 

Upon that eve, small hands were occupied 
With hanging up the stockings, side by side, — 

Four tiny stockings, empty, clean, and fresh. 
Shaped by a mother's hand for dainty flesh. 

The brown-eyed baby's, knit of scarlet wool, 
We prayed to find on Christmas morning full. 

The next and merriest of the band of boys 
Sent up the chimney shouts for Santa Claus. 

While one, with eyes like mother's, darkly blue, 
Named gifts for all the gay and happy creAv. 

And I, the only girl amid the band, 

Lent, here and there, a busy, hindering hand — 

Flattering my restless little heart, the while. 
That such great help was what made mother smile. 

Then, too, our voices in a chorus rang. 
And we impromptu Christmas carols sang. 

" Christmas is coming!" — this, my favorite glee, 
Each brother echoed back with cheers thrice three. 

" Christmas is coming !" sang the blue-eyed one, 
Scarce more than baby, though the eldest son. 



286 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

" What kind of lady is she, mamma, say ? 
And is she coming here to spend the day ?" 

Sweet, earnest questioner ! I see him yet — 
Who could such pretty seriousness forget ? 

At once, like merry bells our voices chimed, 
But mother-looks rebuked the mirth ill-timed, 

And thus she answered : " Christmas was the time 
When Jesus came down from the heavenly clime ; 

" When in a Bethlehem manger he had birth, 
And lived to suffer for the sins of earth." 

Ah ! never yet was sweeter story told. 

To lead earth's straying lambs to Christ's safe fold. 

And by the burning Yule-logs heaping high, 
That Christmas Eve, full fifteen years gone by, 

It was repeated o'er and o'er again : 
Oh ! that we listened to it now as then ! 

Oh ! that the blue-eyed boy to manhood grown, 
Loved the sweet story as in years agone ! 

Oh ! that the brown-eyed baby, now in youth. 
Would from a mother's lips still learn the truth ; 

And he, the merry mischief, changed by pain. 
Look, to be healed, on Ilim who once was slain! 

^Vould that my heart, world-hardened though it be, 
Could lift the veil of unbelief, and see, 



LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 28t 

By faith unqnestioning, the perfect love 
That brought the Lord of Glory from above ! 

"Would that my children ne'er, in after years, 
O'er bhnd heart wanderings should pour out tears ! 

I ask, O Christ, that thou wilt hear this prayer — 
Take these beloved ones into thy kind care. 

Each erring one, dear Christ, I humbly plead, 
May yet be drawn to feel a Saviour's need. 

And ere another Christmas day comes round, 
May every one within thy fold be found. 



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